


Queuing Problems

by CodenameCarrot



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Coercion, Coming In Pants, Dancing, First Time, Light Bondage, M/M, Porn With Plot, Q is not a hacker, Rimming, Truth Serum, sinful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 18:11:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3539126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CodenameCarrot/pseuds/CodenameCarrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q rolls out upgrades to the HR Software with surprising results, Q-branch employees protect their own, and James Bond is looking for a nice night out.</p><p> 007kinkmeme prompt:</p><p> <i>Providing sexual services to field agents (especially the double-oh agents) is part of the job of every MI6 employee. Post Skyfall, 007 is grounded for a while until he gets his physical fitness back and is bored enough to order Q to join him for a night. </i></p><p>  <i>Given 007's propensity for "losing" his earpieces, the fact that all his conquests on missions die and that he doesn't make use of the employees, speculation about his preferences run rampant, and the general consensus is that he's got to be really hard on his partners (maybe even get them killed to make sure they don't talk). </i></p><p>  <i>So, what I want is Q basically driving himself insane with worry about what Bond is going to do to him (maybe inspired by stories about other field agents, or he worries that Bond wants revenge for botching things with Silva's virus), but he's willing to do his duty. But Bond is actually very vanilla for a field agent (some basic bondage maybe, but nothing more) and an extremely generous lover.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mental and Sexual Health of Field Agents

**Author's Note:**

> Everything in this story is consensual; however the structure of the prompt (and therefore the story) creates a micro-society within MI-6 where sex may (or may not) be consentual, but is certainly coerced. 
> 
> Q is willing to 'take one for the team,' and Bond is a generous lover who thinks that Q could use (and appreciate) a good shag. Porn (if not hilarity) ensues.

* * *

**_13.4.8 § 22 Employee Responsibilities For Mental and Sexual Health of Field Agents_ **

* * *

It's not like his terms of employment weren't clear; but it's been understood that they rarely apply to the Q-branch employees. After all, the bulk of R&D had been deep under London even before MI-6 evacuated to the tunnels,

Boothroyd had even gone a step further to protect his 'crew' - breakfast and lunch, plus a light tea that could double as a midnight snack were done on a pot-luck basis for 40 in each of the 3 break areas. No-one from his department had to brave meeting an agent in the cafeteria. The gym, it was understood, was at-your-own-risk; as was the range, but the three aisles of the prototype test range off of central engineering were enough to keep the department's firearms certifications current.

The system kept them separate from 'six and it kept them safe. So when he took up the mantle of Q, he abused rank to reduce his rotation to providing tea 3x a month, allowed employee buy-in for those days lunch got left behind, and left well enough alone. Besides, Q was rather proud of his ability to produce 8 dozen vegan chocolate cupcakes in 40 minutes.

Five months into his tenure as Q, it became clear that physical isolation was not going to be enough going forward.

Or rather, an unfortunate convergence of post-Silva deep cover recalls and world events had landed an unprecedented number of agents in London. Bored agents. The current request program was piggybacked on some Microsoft monstrosity that was originally used for scheduling conference rooms. It was never designed for this load (never designed at all, if Q was feeling charitable) and developed queuing problems.

In short: 005 had claimed one of the new auditors for the three weeks before his window to infiltrate a key underground uranium supplier opened. Agent 83 had also put in a request for her through the field agent secretary pool, which they never should have authorized. The outcome was lucky. Agent 83 was only healing from a broken leg, shattered hand, and moderate internal bruising. The auditor quit; and denied his first choice, 005 dragged the offending secretary off to god knows where, reportedly by her hair, and M dumped the software on Q-branch.

The main rules were simple: 1) double-ohs get who they want, when they want them. 2) elite field agents - the double-oh training pool - can only be denied for certified cause. 3) All other field agents, along with a number of department heads, can put in a request for any time outside of work hours, which may be declined. 3a) requests not declined for certified cause can be overridden by the agent’s superior or quartermaster.

Given their reputation as virginal basement dwelling science nerds, no one had ever asked their personal quartermaster to override the system. Still, mused Q, specs were specs.

While he was at it there were other requests - continue to allow the secretarial pool, and by extension quartermasters, to enter requests for agents; automated tie-in to accounting for the overtime to cover missed shifts, and to medical for follow-up testing and counselling; facial recognition searches for when you didn't get a name, but did get a picture; searches by physical attributes, department, marital status, and a few things that Q was rather certain he didn't want to google. HR even wanted the percent of 'requests' accepted, to go into annual reviews. Oh, and it should be compatible with station software worldwide - this was going to be pushed to all of MI-6.

And it had to keep Q-branch safe.

Q could have rolled new software out as soon as the next central update went through, but that would have been suspicious. So he sat on it for an extra two days, until the Friday senior staff meeting, and was feeling rather proud of himself.

R had made up a rather smart presentation, and some of the best curried dahl he'd had in ages, and Q was feeling confident as he left behind his early lunch in the R&D tunnels for the sunlit conference rooms preferred by other departments.

He tried to hold onto that feeling when the paper agenda indicated he'd be presenting first. And again when they relocated from a boardroom to a lecture hall and hundreds of eyes bored into him. All of the department heads, more of the double-ohs than he'd ever seen in one place together, and enough agents and pretty young things to make him think they could all adjourn to secret-agent & femme fatale night at the nearest club were there.

There were - thank R - no technology hiccups as his presentation loaded on the 4 meter tall screen. He pulled on the headset; not as nice as Q-branch, but far better than when he'd done a stint in accounting during cross-training, and began.

"The new agent calendar event system; ACES for short, is accessed through your existing MI-6 profile page - no more sending notes to Patricia and her crew - although Q-branch will be releasing an app for use with secured MI6 smartphones and tablets by the end of the month."

There was clapping, and then a cheer, and then the whole audience was on their feet. Seriously? He'd banged it out over a bottle of Shiraz, with over 90% of the code pulled from the MI-6 internal GIT repository, and the rest typed on a bloody tablet. It was nothing like the systematic zombification of Russian weather satellites they'd achieved last week, and yet the crowd was giving him a bloody standing ovation. When the noise faded, finishing with a particularly lewd wolf-whistle, Q continued.

He outlined the how to access the system, use the history and search functions, accepted picture types for facial recognition, and glossed over the queuing workflow and systems integrations. He finished by announcing the system was up for use immediately, training sessions through HR would begin next week, and called for questions.

"How about a practical demonstration? You, me, 8:30 tonight?"

Oh gods. That was 007. Grounded thanks to a shockwave that had mangled his ears enough to throw off his balance, James Bond had all but taken up residence in the outer corridors of Q-branch. Q had been deliberately misunderstanding his "flirtations" for the last 9 days.

That was a direct request; there was no way to push it off this time. Bond was leaning forward from his front row seat, legs splayed wide, looking all the world like the cat who'd pinned a mouse. A very Q-like mouse. Shit.

He closed the presentation, and the default home screen filled the projection. How was he going to get through this with the man hovering over him and clicking in all the wrong places? What if his protections for Q-branch were too good and he didn't even show up as a potential partner...?

Wait - he THE quartermaster, he could bloody well requisition himself on 007's behalf. Logging in to his MI-6 profile, Q clicked the new ACES icon in the available application dock.

"Now, although I have requesting privilege as a branch head, you'll note that since this is for 007 I'm going to the 'my agents' section. If you can't, or don't want to, get in yourself, then your assigned secretary, superior, or quartermaster can book on your behalf from here."

As long as he kept talking his hands wouldn't shake. "You'll see your agents along the left," it was a beautiful display showing name, official position at MI-6, and a thumbnail picture. The thin scroll bar indicated that the list went on for quite some time, but it was alphabetized by surname and Bond was already visible, "once you select an agent, please note that their picture will replace yours in the upper right, and the background will change to a blue theme to show that we're working on someone else's behalf."

He thought about the easiest way to get himself to appear in the results, where he should never be. Fixing his gaze firmly on the screen he selected the "Quartermaster (Q-Branch)" heading so from the department dropdown, pointedly ignoring the activation of the subdivisions menu, and then entered Q into the name field before clicking search.

2 results.

Q - Director  
Angelina Quellian - Tech Floater 2nd Class

Pulling up his profile, he cringed briefly at the associated picture - really should have updated that when he was promoted (or at any time after his formal intake). Most of his information read simply 'redacted' but apparently preferred partner wasn't considered identifying enough, because there it was: 'men,' outing him to every agent in the entire fucking service. As if he hadn't fended off enough passes since becoming Q.

Q entered in 8:30pm as the start, meeting at the agent's reception desk, and turned back to Bond, "and when do you think we'll be done?"

"Oh, I might see my way to letting a pretty young thing like you go for lunch."

"12 o'clock then." He typed it in, clicked submit, and pulled out his work-issued mobile. A moment later it dinged, alerting him to the changes in his schedule and directing him to his ACES profile for more information. "As a side benefit this will notify you superiors if you'll be out during normal working hours, and flag all meetings in conflict to the appropriate admin pool for rescheduling. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a number of items to wrap up since I won't be in tomorrow morning."

Forgetting the rest of the meeting, Q ripped the headset off with as much dignity as he could muster, snapped the laptop shut, and fled through the instructor door before the applause began.

* * *

"Sir, should we erase the Bang-On test data from the presentation?"

"First, now that we're in production, the system should be referred to by its proper name, and second, I'm afraid that that wasn't test data. 007 asked for a practical demonstration, and it seems that I have a... an assignation to tonight."

"But you're exempt!"

"I'm afraid not. Historically, Q branch has lacked the respect required for exemptions."

Q hurried through the department as the chime of the interoffice chat program began to chorus though the air before his staff remembered to mute their speakers. He sagged into the stillness of his office as the echo of locking solenoids in the door dissipated.

It was easier than expected to clear tomorrow morning; it was a Saturday, and there was only 009 in the field under deep cover. Regretfully he put off the ballistics testing of the new rocket launcher from automotive a full week - experience had shown that anything that could shake the foundations really should be tested pre-dawn on a Saturday, and, well, he'd been looking for an excuse to put off the quarterly budgets anyway.

Ok that was done. He was clear to spend well into tomorrow having sex with James Bond.

The panic he'd been trying to keep down seized him; he was going to have sex with a double-oh. Or rather 007 was going to have sex with him. He'd barely passed his physicals; there was no way he was getting through this. Pulling at his hair, he slumped against his desk.

Q couldn't say how long he sat frozen, only that it ended when the override on the door blinked green.

"Q? Love?" That was Moneypenny.

"Sir?" R, Henrietta, in full mothering mode. He couldn't blame her, he was the same age as her kids and she'd taken him home and all but adopted him when M dumped him on Q branch more than a decade ago. Even when she'd redone their rooms (getting rid of that horrible bunk bed) she'd made it clear he was always welcome to come and stay.

The two slipped inside, followed by a half dozen of his technical leads. Claire Anderson, better known as Switch, was his first recruit and the unofficial head of Cybersecurity. Catherine Alice Walker, MD had been one of the original flower children, and her salt-and-pepper hair was still in plaits wrapped around her head. She'd swapped "Dr. Alice" for "Dr. Walker" when Silva's bombing promoted her to associate director of Pharmaceuticals.

Paul, Geoff, and Thomas were straight-backed men in white coats straight out of the old MI-6. They ran the Engineering, Micro-computing, and Automotive Divisions. They took up position near his bench as the ladies sat down in his too-hard sofa, and Eve positively lounged against his desk.

"Sir, you said this would be an improvement." Switch accused. She had reason for concern, with a face like a Botticelli angel and a figure that precluded taking the tube at rush hour, if she wasn't hidden in Crypto he'd be losing at least a third of her working hours. Which would be a bollixed up waste of the second best programmer on English soil?

"I did." Q acknowledged, dragging himself from the desk to an empty whiteboard. "There was a direct request from a double-oh in front of witnesses. My hands were tied. It is fortunate he didn't try to pull me up himself." He set a marker to the board, beginning to sketch the system architecture.

"Now, your department is an inheritable class, so all members of the auditing team are also in finance, which is part of central administration, which is part of 'six. However, during testing of Bang-On Q-branch may, and I stress may, have been set up as non-inheriting parent organization; a full review of the current configuration is currently in the general queue at priority eight.

"In addition, while names, nicknames, alternate spellings and diminutives will pull up a full range of results, handles are considered classified information and are not searchable fields within the system. That means that a search for 'Switch' will never return you, and a search for Claire will only return you if the agent has selected Quartermaster as a top level department, then R&D, and then Cybersecurity.

"At the parent level there's only myself, R, the reception staff, and the floater tech pool. We're fortunate Quellian went floater after her maternity leave, or there would have been a suspicious lack of results." Just thinking how badly it could have gone, Q’s shoulders tensed, and he braced a hand against the board for support.

"In addition, as all results have a default sort of relevance, the more closely an individual is linked to the agent - terms of department, geographical location, preferred lunch break, etc. - the more likely they are to appear at the top of the suggestion list. However, rotational positions are excluded, and cyber security support for agent runners is nominally rotational position, so it is not prioritized the relevance rankings."

His team stared at the board. Q couldn't read their closed-off faces, but he imagined the anger he felt at himself was reflected there.

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more." He apologized.

He must have looked pathetic, because suddenly Henrietta was wrapping her arms around his shoulders and leading him my back to the spot she'd vacated on the couch.

"Alright then," She declared, returning to wipe the board clear with a few decisive strokes, "What do we need to do to send our quartermaster into the field?" With the block engineers script the previous Q - Major Boothroyd - had drilled into his staff she titled the board:

** Q's Big Date **

Q made a strangled sound. "It's not a date!" He yelped, "It's a bloody booty call; there's no way I'm going to get out of this unharmed-"

"Sssh, love" Eve was pressing the cold mug of tea from his desk into his hands, "take a drink, yes? That's a good boy, now. Deep breath. Another. OK. Now what worries you?"

"Bond breaks everything he touches. We gave him a custom titanium radio - Paul was in the vacuum chamber doing micro welds for hours-"

"14 on the production copy alone, sir"

"It should have been indestructible, and he managed to shear the speaker off with his bare hands-"

"I believe he caught the wire from his garrotte in his watch under the protective cage-" Paul started to describe the failure before Eve cut him off with a hand motion only to have Q bulldoze on.

"Exactly! 2 watches, 8 earpieces, a dozen radios, and that's only because we replaced more than one mid-mission, 5 cars, of which 4 were salvageable, and a customized Walther PPK! And that's just in the last three months. There's nothing from Q-branch that makes it out of that man's custody in one piece."

"On the other hand," Eve was trying to soothe him, "in the same time he's only had to replace one suit, and repair two dinner jackets. Try thinking of yourself more as a bespoke piece of art, and less a device, and I'm sure you'll make it through fine."

"You're forgetting that I wiped the tapes of him and 006 outside of the armoury last week. I have no illusions about what I'm getting into."

"Right then." Henrietta interrupted, drawing attention to the typical mission matrix she'd drawn. Written down the left side were probable events in chronological order, with the next columns given over to supplies and preparation, mitigation efforts, and finally post-mission clean-up.

She labelled the first event "Dinner and Drinks"

"Because we all know who's for dessert," grumbled Q.

"That's the spirit!" She was in full-on R mode now, ready to facilitate a mission plan. It was the psychology degree; Q would put money on it. "Now 007 hasn't typically made use of the perks of being an agent at MI-6, so we're working with limited data. However, going from his missions, he almost always starts his flirtatious at a bar, or gaming table, and then adjourns to dinner or has a full meal - and then some - delivered directly to his rooms. I thought no he'll be taking you to dinner."

"Counterpoint," Interrupted Geoff, "no dinner, directly to drinks. We need to make sure that there's something in Q's stomach to slow the absorption, but not so much he can't eat if he needs to."

"I doubt I'll have an appetite."

Henrietta pencilled in light meal under mitigation, for both dinner and no dinner, adding dress clothes to supplies.

"Next?" She called out.

"Sex," That was Switch.

"Probable locations?" Asked R.

"Bond's flat, Q's flat, hotel suite," said Eve.

"Worst case - agent's lounge," added Geoff

"Continuing - alleyway or public location, car, sex clubs," oh gods. Henrietta had said sex clubs with a straight face. Q was going to die of embarrassment long before 8:30 ever arrived.

Q moaned, and buried his face in his hands. Mercifully, his team ignored him and continued on.

"Switch - pull the security logs for 007's flat, and cross reference with environmentals and his charge history at restaurants, bars, and hotels to get us some odds on this. What are the practical consequences of this choice?"

"I've lost track of the number of knickers I've pulled out of agent's cars during resupply." Thomas muttered, "Ripped blouses too."

R amended dress clothes with "easily removed"

"We issue agent 007 protection when he goes in the field, any idea if he uses them, or should we get an antiviral?" R asked the group.

"We didn't in Macau" Oh gods, that was Eve, "of course, it could be that we were in a hurry and there weren't any on the balcony." She paused to think a moment, "Also, it was sort of an amazing bout of hatesex. The way he got his hands around my-"

"Miss Moneypenny. That will be enough." He had no idea Switch could take that tone, her voice as sharp as her handle, "I think that you should head to medical, brief Dr. Mehri, and fetch back the usual supplies."

Eve glared down at Switch, taking in the navy cardigan and careless plait of electric-blue hair, "as if a kid like you-"

"Out." That was R. No one messed with her team, and Eve was much more a friend to Q than to Q-branch. Eve waved a vague salute in R's direction and left, her heels clicking deliberately as she closed the door.

"Between Moneypenny and 006 we have two similar data points. Are there other types of sex we should prepare for?" R turned back to business, adding "condoms and lubrication" to supplies and an indented bullet with "rough sex"

"Bondage"

"Spanking"

"Dominance, humiliation,"

"I don't suppose I could put flowers and candlelight on the list?" Q sighed.

"No Sir." Thomas from automotive now. "We can't afford to lose our quartermaster due to inadequate preparation." He paused to think. "Have you ever given a blow job, sir?"

"Yes," Q's said, more shortly than intended. He was not thinking about being on his knees before James Bond. Not thinking about that at all. "The problem is I don't see how I can prepare for this other than by getting dead drunk."

R obligingly wrote "Chemical Relaxation" under top-level mitigation measures, followed by "Preparatory Stretching." Q felt the flush spread from his hairline to his chest.

"Ma'am," Switch looked up from her tablet, "Post-Skyfall London data, adjusting for the purchase date of his flat, while limited, indicates that he usually takes his partners there, with none of the ladies purchasing so much as a coffee in the morning. Either he's feeding them breakfast or they're no longer up for food.

"I'm still waiting on several HR systems, but current data shows 2-3 days out of work following their encounter with Agent Bond."

"Breakfast" was added near the bottom of the board, along with "change of clothes" and "dressing gown." At the very top level R added a leave recall notice under clean-up. Not Good, Q thought, very Not Good. The last time one had gone out Major Boothroyd and 30% of the department had a nasty case of norovirus.

"Humiliation, mitigation," Q forced himself to push out, "Spare glasses, all critical supplies in a case locked via micro-dermal sensors."

"Rough sex, mitigation, bio-tracer watch." Supplied Paul from engineering.

"Won't do any good if it gets taken off," countered Switch.

"If it's as fast as it was with 006, the watch is staying on. It'd be damn useful to have basic biometrics. If we register a sudden drop in blood oxygen we can have an ambulance there in 90 seconds flat."

R had added "breath play" to the list and the watch to mitigation efforts. Q felt sick. In the upper left she added the 24/7 notation and a single tally. One-full time monitor then.

"Paul." Q had to focus on the engineering to keep his voice steady, "Aren't we still in pre-beta with that watch?"

"Sir. We've been unable to resolve the blood pressure calibration issues, so we're not going to get any change unless you're bleeding out, but it can reliably report temperature, perspiration, heart-rate, and blood-oxygen levels. The prototype on my bench has a cultured sapphire touch-screen face, works with tap, tap-and-hold, and swipe motions, although the testers have been having a devil of a time with complex directional input."

"So we could use Morse code?" Geoff, now.

"No." corrected Switch gently, "Bond came into the double-oh program from the navy. He'll pick up on Morse code tapped out on a watch face like a dog on a bone. I can monitor, best to leave the agent runners out of this, and we'll come up with customized code."

They would. She'd been his first hire once he was promoted high enough to have a say in things, and the only one fast enough to keep up with him on polymorphic code engines. Compared to some of the things they'd created, code for the watch would be child's play. Focusing on this like any other pre-mission prep kept his movements steady as he crossed to the board and his voice from cracking as he addressed his team.

"I think we have enough to go-on here. Switch, Paul, head down to your bench and get that watch wired into an appropriate sandbox environment. Thomas, verify the tracer on 007's car. Coordinate with R to see if there's something else she'd like in there. Geoff, see if we can modify one of the small delivery cases to hold my glasses and any other critical items we come up with; my bio-prints are on file, and I think we can take the match threshold down to 60% given the disparity in hand sizes. Catherine, I'm leaving chemical relaxation in your capable hands. I'm going to take the contents of my locker down to wardrobe and see what they can set me up with in terms of a dinner outfit and overnight bag. The rest of you get back to work. We'll meet back at T minus 30 for a final systems check and pre-mission toast."

* * *

**_Interlude: MI-6 Firing Range_ **

There were 24 stalls in the primary range. However, with all but one of the double-ohs in London, and all of those at the range, even the clerks had cleared out after running a quick inventory and propping open the gate to the armoury. 006 and 007 had finished their handgun magazines before the others, and had dropped back to lean on the armoury counter and chat.

"James, you dog." Chuckled Alec. "Propositioning the quartermaster in front of that sort of audience - lucky he didn't hand you your balls."

"Quite."

Jack, 005, left his gun on the mat, and sprawled almost all of the way over rage counter as he rooted behind it for the spare ammunition. "Wish I'd thought of it first," he interrupted, "I bet with that hair of his that you could grab a fistful, right at the base of his neck, and pull him to his knees... It'd line up his mouth and throat. Order him to suck. So by-the-book, I wonder he'd give me any cheek with those red, red lips-"

There was a sickening crack of an elbow impacting the back of Jack's floating rib, driven by all of Bond's strength, and a thousand 9mm rounds hit the floor. The range went silent as the other three agents stopped firing and turned to watch the already finished altercation. Bond had him in an effective choke-hold, with one arm twisted up so far behind his back that it was clearly dislocated even though the black turtleneck.

"He's mine."

"I got it, got it," the younger man rasped, slumping to the floor when Bond released him. Bond smiled at the rest of the agents, indicating that they should finish off their rounds, and turned his attention back to Alec.

"Well, that was refreshing. Drinks in 15?"

"Make it 30, and I'll join you," called out Bill, making his way over to the pair. As 002, he was the second oldest agent after Bond. "Rookies," he spat, "No respect these days." With a casual kick immaculate wingtips precisely struck 005's kidney, below the already bruised rib.

"Agreed. We'll meet up at the East lobby?" Bond replied, a hint of a smile pulling at his eyes. None of the remaining agents offered any help to the softly moaning man as they left.


	2. Q-branch addenda: Voluntary Human Testing

* * *

**_Q branch addenda - Q.26.3 Voluntary Human Testing_ **

* * *

If anyone had noticed that his orders omitted almost all of the items on the board directly relating to sex, they didn't mention it as they exited his office.

Q was avoiding wardrobe by checking the status of the virus propagation through the Russian weather satellite system when Eve returned with not just one of Medical's kits but Dr. Mehri herself. She was pert lady of Indian descent who might've reached five-foot with heels on, and carried a large black doctor's satchel straight from a period drama without a hint of irony. They waited quietly, eyes scanning the partial matrix, as he finished up and extracted himself from the system, covering his traces and locking down his console.

"You lot don't do things by halves, do you?" The doctor mused. "Do you mind if I add to it?" Q handed her a marker and pushed a kik-step in the direction of the board. He watched, unable to look away, as R's black block print was augmented with a loose, looping scrawl that screamed medical professional.

"Deliberate injury" "Shower - use nice toiletries" "5% Lidocaine" "codeine tablets" "witch hazel towelettes" "pyjamas" "wool duster" "earmuffs" "seamless long-sleeved shirt, silk or cotton" "seamless thermal pants or stockings, silk or cotton"

"Do I even want to know?" Q asked, as she added the last two.

"I've been on aftercare for 3 years now; we see serious lacerations at least once a month. If it happens, take the codeine, wipe up as best you can with the witch hazel, then lidocaine, and use the shirt and stockings as a full body bandage while hauling your arse back to medical."

If he wasn't still sitting at his console, Q was sure his legs would have gone out from under him. "It's OK." Dr. Mehri soothed, coming over to pat his hand in a what was meant to be a reassuring gesture, "the most likely case is that he's going to be a little large, and a little rough, and you'll spend tomorrow afternoon working from that couch on your stomach."

"It's a lovely burn," Eve piped in.

"Moneypenny, dear, not helping." Q sighed, before he turned to her, "you have an... eye for fashion, right? I've set the code on my locker to 31-41-59 for the next half hour. Could you please take everything in there down to wardrobe and get me kitted out? I'm pretty sure takeaway and a streaming video is not in my future tonight."

"You'll be alright with..." She trailed off.

"I may not have the sexual appetite of a double-oh, but I certainly don't have their fear of medical." He huffed in his best 'quartermaster' voice, and was rewarded with Eve's sharp laugh as she left the room.

Q waved the doctor over to his workbench, pulling himself from the chair to stand next to her. "So what's the plan for me then?"

She set her bag on it, realized that she wasn't going to be able to see in the top since the table was positioned for a man of his height, and retrieved the stool. Rooting around she extracted two black cases the size of encyclopaedias, several opaque bottles, and a kit he'd been introduced to at his last annual physical. The delights of turning 30.

"Ah. Well then." He picked up the kit and gestured at the attached loo.

"Sorry sir," corrected Dr. Mehri. She flipped open the top case, revealing a series of anal plugs in a pearlescent white silicone, nested in typical MI-6 foam core, before snapping it shut and passing it over along with a bottle labelled A16. "Be generous with this, and yourself. I want you to work up to the largest one you can comfortably hold. Leave that in and then we'll go to tea."

"Tea?"

"Why yes, quartermaster. Rumours abound that Q branch has the best tea in 'six"

He found his lips twitching at the oddity of it all, "And how, doctor, is tea going to help with my evening?"

"Perhaps I could just go for a good cuppa...?" A mirrored smile was pulling at her mouth, making the ruby stud in her nose twitch, "Fine. Fine!" She laughed, "between this and that, with some caffeine and nibbles, we should induce a peristaltic reaction."

"Peristaltic reaction. Is that what medical is calling it now?"

"In polite company, yes." They laughed again, and if his was on the edge of hysterical, she was too polite to call him out on it. When she caught her breath Dr. Mehri continued in something very close to the no-nonsense tone she surely briefed agents in.

"Tea, then come back and do whatever it is you need to finish while you wait for the urge. Nothing special there, then around two hours before your appointment, use the kit, and keep at it until you're passing clear water. I imagine you'll want a shower after - go right ahead.

"Once that's done, onto the second case. Same drill, only you'll want to leave it in until just before 8:30, so you'll need to use the O-22 and check the lubrication about every hour. Just before you leave, slick yourself with one of the small tubes unless Pharmaceutical gives you something better. Be sure to pocket one, and put the rest in your overnight bag.

"Now, for your comfort, most of these are oil-based. I don't need to tell you about latex solubility - we've issued you compatible condoms, use them."

"Yes doctor." He tucked the case close to his body with his elbow and headed for the en-suite. Q paused and looked back over his shoulder, "it's a touch early, but the kitchen off Cryptography and Cybersecurity should have tea out already, and I believe that today is carrot cake with cream cheese icing."

* * *

"Work up to the largest one you can comfortably hold. Right. Good." Q muttered to himself.

The smallest was no bigger around at the midpoint than the bony knuckle of his thumb, while he had to hold his wrist above the largest to verify, that yes, the plug was bigger. Bracing one hand on the pedestal sink he unbuckled his belt and thumbed open the button on his flies. The weight of the leather dragged his trousers to the ground the moment he released the zip, and Q swallowed deeply.

He met his own eyes in the mirror. Everyone knew this was a possibility; even being male. Besides, given how young he started with 'six it was statistically unlikely that he'd never been selected before. It was only a matter of time, really.

He pulled his pants down to his knees, and then stepped out of them. This was absurd; standing in his private toilet, still in his cardigan and tie, but bare from the waist down. Q took a long look at himself. He supposed that he could be attractive, thin with barely enough body fat to obscure his ribs, but a nice hint of muscle from maintaining MI-6 fitness standards.

Running a hand from his navel down his thigh, he wondered what 007 would think about his skin. Perfectly smooth, excepting the small, dark, trail leading to his groin he kept close cropped out of habit. Laser removal had made sense during the years he spent setting up the main server and heading out with cyber-sec to physically pull drives. Between not getting caught in the skin-tight anti-static suits and minimising DNA evidence it had just been easier than any of the other options.

Besides, in a slightly-drunk moment of mischief, cysec had run the laser through Engineering's budget. It would have been a shame not to use it.

Now, Q rued, now it just made him look younger. Even without his team's input, Q would lay odds that this was an age/dominance thing. Spots indeed. Bond had called him a "pretty young thing" back in the auditorium; omitting "pretty," it was hardly the first time he'd been called young.

Q eyed the plugs, feeling the twitch muscles in his body call out for flight, no matter how inappropriate it would be to burst into his office with no trousers. Stop, he ordered himself, breathe. He needed to be generous with himself tonight. He was doing this because it was required, but the system worked better now than at any point in the past, and Q could appreciate that. It gave the agents what they needed so the agents could give England what it needed. He just needed to take care of himself, until he could get back into the safety of Q-branch.

Q extracted the smallest plug and carefully coated it until every surface glistened, learning its shape with fingers and palm until he knew it was well as any of his own tech. He eased it in, only stopping when flared base nestled in the crevice between his cheeks. It was... There. Perhaps a little strange, but not necessarily uncomfortable. Right then. Next.

This one had more of a bullet shape, flaring to as wide as his first two fingers, before sweeping back to a trim stem and squat base. When he palmed it the tip protruded a good four centimetres from the circle of his fingers, and Q ran his hand slowly up and down the silicone, masturbating the toy.

Would Bond want this from him? Would he loop one of his arms around Q, trapping him against a well-muscled chest, until he worked clever fingers into trousers and pants? Until coaxed him to completion? Q liked working with his hands, mapping the play of muscles and nerves beneath them, more than he liked any other type of sex. Of course, it'd been years since he'd gotten any - the mismatch of his age and security clearance was not conducive to getting a leg over.

The last time he'd had any sort of partnered sex was before the final push on his doctoral thesis. They'd lounged comfortably against each other, Strictly Ballroom playing half-forgotten across the room, hands in each other's pants. She'd slowly pulled him off, kissing away the moans loud enough to be heard over the film... Q was surprised to find that more than a decade made no difference to his prick; he could feel the beginnings of an erection despite the circumstance. Well then. Moving on.

A simple hook of the fingers around the base and Q pulled the smallest plug out. Taking a deep breath he canted his hips backwards and began to push the bigger one in. One moment, then the next, and just as Q dared to believe he could do this, he met resistance. The beginnings of his erection vanished and his head snapped up, the wild eyes of his reflection meeting his own.

If he couldn't take this, how in the world was he to take 007? Q felt himself freeze, hands still clutched around the toy, a panic attack building--

One breath. Two. "Be generous," he repeated, pulling it back a bit. Ok, that was nice. In, pause, retreat. Again. On the third time he was bold enough to keep pushing, with both arse and plug, and after what seemed an endless moment the toy was seated in him. His internal monologue unhelpfully finished the thought with, 'Perhaps not as seated as some of the other ones in the box.'

Q straightened, tucking his hips back under, and the plug _pulled_ at him. That was new. He twisted his torso, bending forward and back to catalogue the sensations. Still strange, and almost too much, but....

One more. He could take just one more, Q promised himself, and then there'd be tea. He let himself take a small break, running through an old stretching routine starting at his feet. He rotated his ankles, and then the leg from the hip, feeling the implacable mass as his body writhed. Q continued working his way up, tensing and releasing, until he let the weight of his head stretch his neck left, then right. He finished with a shake that was reminiscent of a cat with its fur on-end, and turned back to the case.

The third wasn't significantly longer than the second, but the stem was wider than the first plug in its entirety. Q circled his thumb and forefinger around it; sizing it up. He could just rest the pad of his thumb on his fingernail at the widest point. Slicking a hand he palmed it from root to tip - the heel of his hand pushing against the base, fingertips in line with the head, and judged it to be a reasonable analogue for his own cock.

Only he wasn't going to be taking himself, now was he. Unless this counted, which it well might. Would taking that approach aid him any? He'd never gone this far with any of the young men who showed interest; what sort of lover would he be...

A clever one, Q decided, seeing to his partner first with bold and sure hands. Setting the lubricated plug on the lip of the sink he turned his attention towards the one already in him. He pulled at it, feeling the stretch, then releasing to let his body pull it close. He cupped himself, appreciating the fine fuzz that remained and tapping his forefinger along his perineum. Another tug on the plug, slight rub in the front. Oh, that could work.

He released himself and slid the plug free; before he could clench shut he nosed in the larger one, just far enough to feel the burn at his entrance. Again he took the time to run his free hand down from his navel to between his legs, again the drag of flesh on flesh, the slight stirrings in front to ease those in back.

He rubbed and fondled, enjoying the sensations even if this wasn't going to come to fruition, even as he eased the plug behind him in with quick, shallow, thrusts. Always a quick learner, Q appreciated the irony that trying to push the toy out only eased its way in. Perhaps he would have been better off knowing that before Agent 007 had laid siege to Q-branch and his person.

Carefully, mindful of himself, he built up a rhythm. Bearing down as he pushed, then letting his release try to expel the toy. While it wasn't unpleasant; It didn't seem as though he was getting anywhere. Still, perhaps patience was half the exercise. Just as he began to contemplate giving it up for lost the widest part pushed past and his body pulled it in to the hilt. Q sagged forward, hands flailing out to catch the sink, and rested, breath coming in sharp puffs.

His newly abandoned cock remained half-hard and all too sensitive as he tucked himself back into his pants. Perhaps, maybe, he could have gone one more? Would it be better? Worse? Certainly, so, so much more... A small part of him was relieved that tonight it was extremely unlikely he'd be asked to decide how far he could go.

* * *

There was a carrot cake missing several large slices on the counter when Q crept into the break room. He nodded a greeting to Dr. Mehri, seated at one of the large round tables with a handful of cryptographers, and helped himself. The accompanying pot of tea was a mild green, and there was no time to brew a proper cuppa for his caffeine fix. The speed press was on the top shelf of tea-things cupboard, well within his usual reach. However, today when raised himself up onto the balls of his toes, arm outstretched, the plug within him shifted and Q saw stars.

He was pretty sure he'd moaned, but being both British and MI-6 employees everyone gave a remarkably good impression of having heard nothing. Fortunately, he'd managed to snag the press, even if it had slipped from his hands to clatter against the counter. He filled the pressure chamber with a specially blended black tea and then the reservoir with cold water. Slotting it into the compressor, he swayed from foot to foot, rolling his hips slightly, relaxing only when he felt plug settle back into a more benign position.

He felt full, and stretched, and when he'd walked down the corridor every so often it would shift - just so - and his cock would take notice. Again. Everyone seemed to know - gazes slid away from his face and he'd developed an extra 1/2 meter of personal space. Of course, that could a have just been the news of his assignation, not knowledge of what he was doing _in the halls of his own department_ to prepare for it.

Only his promise to meet Dr. Mehri kept him from fleeing back to his office and locking the door. Now he was here, and she was cleaning up her tea things and coming over to look at the press.

"What is that?" She asked

"A sort of espresso maker for tea. Makes a serviceable cup if you add enough steamed milk." Q replied. He added the milk someone had left in the carafe, and a touch of bergamot oil, to create an earl grey latte. Straightening up with his "tea and nibbles" caused another flash across his nerves, and he was sure that his cheeks had gone more than pink. "Would you mind if I took this in my office?"

"It's really not necessary, we've only got a few things left to cover, and we're much closer to Medical's service lift here." Dr. Mehri replied, denying him escape.

The lumbar support on the mesh cafe chair went unused as Q perched on the edge to avoid pressure in all of the wrong, or rather, oh-so-right places as he ate his tea and cake. Dr. Mehri promised to send a courier with the analgesics down within the hour and reviewed the supplies she'd left in his office in a low voice - it was with some pride he'd only flinched at "field rated wrist braces."

Although the cryptographers were ignoring the two of them with the intensity of a small nuclear fission reaction, through a careful shifting of weight Q managed to stand without incident. If he ignored the ongoing tightness in his pants that had him heartily wishing for a longer cardigan.

Q escorted the Doctor to the exit. She had gathered his hands in her much smaller ones, squeezing her support, when his mobile went off.

Eve had texted. "Your Fairy Godmother is going shopping. See you at 5 ;)"

He groaned, and Dr. Mehri laughed before they went their separate ways.

* * *

Aggressive delegation saw Q through his to-do list and he was working on the calibration of the biometric watch with Paul and Switch at 5:00. Not 5 minutes later Eve breezed in with a rolling wardrobe rack and several large Harvey Nichols bags.

"More everyday than I expected." She observed, catching his wrist and turning it back and forth. "Skaagen?"

"Prototype budget doesn't stretch far enough as is," Paul groused, "it had an easily replaceable mechanism and the style works mounted on a cuff."

It's true that the watch is larger, and heavier, than what Q would normally select for himself. His wrist looked almost elfin in comparison, but the sensors hidden in the cuff and clasp were flush against his skin, and a diagnostic window in the corner of his personal monitor bank beeped as steadily as any hospital equipment.

Eve looked at it, and back to Q, "Good thing we're going cleaned-up boffin tonight. I don't think even I could get that to go with a dinner jacket."

Paul eyed the wardrobe rack with the same look Q was sure he gave his daughters when they ask to be taken shopping, and then confirmed the watch's touch commands with a proficiency he'd lacked even 15 minutes prior. Work completed, he fled.

Switch was eyeing Eve, and Eve her, before Q realised that while they both wanted the best for him, they were in serious need of a mediator. Far too exhausted to take this on, Q picked up his landline and dialled down to Pharmaceuticals before conscious thought caught up with him.

"Connect me to Dr. Catherine Walker... Yes ... If you would; Eve and Switch are already here. Thank You."

10 minutes later, Q was trying on the last of the coats when she arrived pushing a lab cart. The only thing he recognized was a bottle of sparkling wine on ice, and even that was doubtful given the inventory barcode covering most of the label.

"That one washes you out. Avoid the greys." Catherine critiqued the coat while working at the wire cage on the bottle. A second later she had it off, and twisted until the cork popped free. She filled four glasses with what appeared to be a white wine gone slightly pink up to a pre-scored mark and passed them out.

"Do I want to know?" He asked as she aimed her tablet scanner at the bottle.

"Seeing the world through Rosé coloured glasses - pre production test run number, she stopped to look at the tablet, "349, bottled in 2011."

"Impressive. Are you ever going to release this, _Dr. Alice_?"

"I think we might need another 50 years to get it right," she replied mildly, taking a slug from her glass. Flower child, indeed. Q followed, it was drier than he expected, with a citrusy aftertaste. He certainly wouldn't have mistaken it for a table wine, although it might work in a cocktail...

"So what should I be expecting here?"

"Mild euphoria and enhanced tractability for the next 24 hours, although given the brain receptors it affects it'll also act as a buffer for alcohol during that time. No matter how much you drink you're not going to get past buzzed. You have to watch out though - it doesn't prevent liver damage, so it's entirely possible you could drink yourself to death."

"Charming."

"Pre-production," she corrected. "Which coat did the ladies like best?"

"The navy wool on the left," replied Switch. Rather than an acerbic correction, Eve nodded in agreement. Absolutely amazing. Q wondered if he could spike M's sideboard before he had to defend his next quarterly budget. Thinking of M lead to thinking of Eve, she'd been here all afternoon but she wasn't Q-branch...

"Eve, love, are you going to have to report this to M?"

She looked like she'd bitten into a lemon. "Q" she pled, "I-"

"Are you going to rat out my people to M?" It was harder than he expected to be stern.

"He thinks you going through with this is important to show that he's committed to maintaining continuity. That even though he's from outside, he's not going to change how things are done at 'six. Given how pale you were at the end of the presentation, I'm to do everything necessary to get you to agents’ reception, as publicly as possible, by 8:30." Eve blurted out. She looked miserable when she continued, "but we've been friends since I was grounded after Istanbul and hiding out in your office. I couldn't let you go out tonight unprepared."

"Answer. The. Question." growled Switch. Even with a full glass of the 'rosé' in her, she loomed over Eve like she was about to attack the former agent on his behalf. Eve remained calm; probably because Switch scraped by her annual self-defence assessment at two points above failing on her fourth try, and her soft curves looked it.

"I haven't heard anything that indicates Q-branch believes they're exempt from the system, or unwilling to comply with their terms of employment. There's nothing to report."

"Bullshit. You were here for the system architecture review."

Eve waved a hand in a lazy, dismissive motion, "Boffin-ese. Not one of the three languages I speak."

Switch looked only slightly less murderous, but Dr. Alice was there again, refilling empty glasses and leading the younger women back to the clothes.

"Q, sir," she cooed while leering at him, "be a dear and strip off."

"You're older than my mother!"

"You're hotter than my nephews. Strip off." Wonderful, now all of the eyes in the room were on him. Two were positively gleeful, and even Switch was amused as he unzipped the thin cardigan.

He folded it and placed it on his desk. The ladies gathered around the rack and were whispering to each other while he worked free his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. By the time he'd undressed down to his sensible grey pants, they seemed to have reached some sort of consensus.

"Pants too," they chorused. Not a good consensus then. Q sighed, and considered defending his pants before realizing how futile it was. He pushed them past his knees and kicked free.

"Here, boss." said Switch, thrusting a scrap of fabric at him. It said something that he was absurdly grateful they decided pants were appropriate. Only, after he tried them on and turned around for a 360 inspection, not those pants. Or the next half dozen pairs. The final selection was _brief_ , and red, and seemed to be lifting his arse until it all but declared 'fuck me.'

They denied him a vest, arguing that since it wouldn't come off easily he would be best off not wearing it in the first place. Then it took them over an hour to go through the rack - Q was made to try on every last item, often in various combinations - and by the time he was back in his familiar clothes Eve and Switch were disturbingly well on their way to becoming mates.

They laid his outfit for tonight across his desk and were packing the other selections into a smart leather carryall when Dr. Alice started her interrogation.

"So what are you looking for?" she asked.

"What?" Q would be more distressed at his lack of eloquence under other circumstances.

"This," Dr. Alice waved in the general area of the clothing, "is to make you pretty for Agent Bond. Very, very, pretty."

Q was certain he blushed.

"But we need you back safe. So what are you looking for? I've got a two-part injection series, good for up to 48 hours, that'll prevent long-term memory formation for the time between. A whole slew of aphrodisiacs of various strengths and applications. A dissociative for resisting interrogation, or post-trauma tabs to reduce the odds of PTSD."

Q stopped to think; he's issued most of these for field use more than once. But he's not a mark, so everything - including the injectables - was on the table. Worst case, forgetting everything would be a mercy, but only taking the first half is risky. If Bond kept him too long, he'd be lucky if the only thing that happened was sudden GI revolt.

The dissociative was also right out, the last thing Q needed was to be stuck even more in his head.

"Set aside a post trauma tab with my glasses," he mused, "and what have we got in mild aphrodisiacs? I'd like to enjoy this - whatever this is - as much as I can. If it's as rough as it was for you-"

Eve nodded, and he continued thinking aloud, "That rough, and the best case scenario is that I'm going to bruise. The way he slammed Alec into the wall - I'd have snapped a collarbone. Without some help, the evening is going to end for me right there. So... help?"

Dr. Alice dug through the trays and cooler cases to come up with two vials. "Short term nerve sensitizer - it's a two part combo; this primes your system for at least three days, with the metabolite concentrating into the lymphatic system. The reaction of that with the second part, applied topically, is what causes the pleasure nerves to fire when enough adjacent stimuli are present-"

"I can work with that. Intravenous or muscle injection?"

"As much as I'd love to have you drop trou again," she had the cheek to wink at him, "roll up your sleeve."

Dr. Alice ended up throwing in a broad spectrum antiviral, "just in case" once she'd gotten the tourniquet around his bicep. Q ran though the standard isometrics to distribute the drugs throughout his system, stopping when he realized that the ladies were having another hushed conversation.

"Anything you'd care to share with the class?" He asked, glad that despite how mellow he felt, acerb was still within his vocal range.

"Catherine has the most amazing collection of essential oils and fragrances," Eve cooed, looking like Christmas has come again, "so we're deciding your scent profile."

"What's wrong with what I normally use?" Q was more than a little offended. He had a very upscale, all natural, set of camomile and rosemary products. Besides, he was fairly certain that Bond had sniffed him on some of the agent's recent visits.

"These are nice," Dr. Alice agreed, "but we need a lotion or moisturizer to dilute the nerve sensitizer, and it looks like my colleague in medical has left a bog-standard lube, so I'll want to upgrade that, and Eve suggested that you might use a touch of deep conditioning hair oil instead of product since it's much more tactile."

Q felt a little woozy thinking about James Bond running thick fingers through his hair, especially since his brain leapt directly from petting to pulling, to being held down with one fisted hand as the other opened the zip on immaculate suit trousers...

The thought is not unpleasant, which Q recognized as another sign he was not full in charge of his facilities. Still, if this was what pharmaceuticals described as 'mild euphoria' he should have put them in for bigger bonuses last year.

The ladies ignored his distraction. While Dr. Alice worked her magic, Switch packed a shaving kit and Eve lined up supplies next to his outfit. All too soon they shoved him towards the shower and told him they'd be back for the debrief and to toast his success.

* * *

Preparing himself both inside and out was easier than he expected to be. Although, they had messed even with his 'nice' toiletries. Q picked up a citrus - probably bergamot - mingled with the rosemary of his body wash. He wondered if he should be offended, but since he'd trained reception to meet his every return to the tunnels with a fresh mug of earl grey, he settled on amused.

Much more quickly than the first time, Q took the third plug. It seemed to fit more easily, and he decided not to push his luck with a fourth. That turned out to be the right call; when he started in with the catalyst for the aphrodisiac he almost came between the pressure of the plug against his prostate and the sensation of his own hands slick against his feet.

Q sank down and sat on the shower floor, heedless of the plug, so he could wave his over-sensitized feet in the air. After a minute or two he found he could rest them on the cool terrazzo without feeling like his prick was going to explode and Q decided that the only sensible path was to work from areas with high nerve concentration to areas with less. Still, he had to stop twice more before he'd primed every inch of skin, and he was so obscenely hard he'd considered bringing himself to completion.

However, after years of averaging one wank a week - if that - Q wasn't sure he could go another round if he helped himself now. James Bond was used to his marks pouring themselves onto him, practically demanded it with that swagger and the way he clipped out, "Bond. James Bond." Even if Q wasn't turned on by the agent, as long as this worked, he'd still be _visibly receptive_.

He worried if that would be good enough. He'd been on the coms the last time a lady failed to succumb to Bond's charms; rather than a shag and sacking the room while she slept there'd been an altercation that ended with the dull thud of flesh against plaster. Q still wasn't sure if he'd meant to kill her or not.

Well, thinking of _that_ took care of his unwanted erection.

Q stepped out of the shower and dressed. He appreciated the smooth slide of the raw silk shirt and softness of the cashmere blended into his trousers against his skin in a way he never had before. No matter how the night went, or how much of what he was feeling was drug-induced, Q decided that he was never giving these clothes back.

He padded barefoot back into his office, and noticed one of the young ladies from wardrobe had set up. He should have known her name, but with almost 200 employees, Q only kept up with the department heads, researchers, and his old crowd back in cybersecurity.

"Sir," she gestured towards a portable barber’s chair next to his bench. Q acquiesced, and settled himself carefully in it while he catalogued the sensations from the plug and every point where his body pressed into the chair's well softened leather. With the same efficiency he expected of all his staff she shaved him, trimmed and styled his hair, and did unspeakable things to his eyebrows with a thread.

Q wasn't sure if it was the rosé or resignation that kept him from sighing when the makeup kit was pulled out. Some sort of light cream was dabbed under his eyes, and a dark pencil applied above, and she gave him a tube of lip gloss that Q would have happily binned at the first opportunity it he hadn't known it came out of the department’s consumables budget.

And then, oh sweet heaven, she started in on the pedicure. Massage was probably the most regular skin on skin contact Q had, but it never felt like that. For all that MI-6 was home of codified sexual harassment, he bit his cheek rather than voice the absolutely filthy thoughts featuring the young lady kneeling in front of him.

He repeated a continuous litany of 'it's just the drugs' to himself as she moved on to his hands, and he hoped that he managed to croak out a thank you while she packed up and levered the chair back onto the supplies handcart. If he hadn't, Q took comfort in the knowledge that silence is preferable to having demanded she bend over and grab his desk. Now. No Q has ever taken advantage since their first female engineer in the 40's, and he'll be damned if he's the first.

Q took out his tablet and noted that he needed to have a serious discussion with pharma about what the word 'mild' meant.

* * *

At 20:00 on the dot everyone was reassembled in his office. He was dressed, wearing the flex-titanium spectacles he kept for formal occasions, the car was tagged and bugged, and Switch's bedding had been dragged up from the bunk room and spread across his miserable couch.

Dr. Alice asked how he felt, and when Q gave her an honest answer she giggled like a girl and called him a lightweight. Still, she'd brought a post-trauma tab for him, and he slotted it into the foam core next to his usual glasses and the heavy painkillers medical sent up, before closing the case and sealing it with his palm.

"Anything else?" Q asked his team, and getting only negative replies he started to lead them down to his usual break room.

"Sorry boss," Thomas interrupted, catching his elbow and leading him deeper into R&D. They collected a train of techs behind them, and when Thomas opened the doors into automotive’s main testing bay, there must be close to a hundred people already waiting. With red plastic cups.

"To Q!" someone shouted, and the room raised their cups and chorused back "To Q!"

Q knew he blushed down to his roots - he was standing at the top of the steps down to the testing floor, tarted up for a double-oh with a silicone plug stuffed up his arse, looking out at most of his department. It was a perfectly rational response.

Switch had somehow made it over to the local PA system, circa 1950 - probably imported with the rest of the garage during the push for centralisation - and flipped it on with a screech of feedback. Mercifully, all eyes turned to her.

"I have to say my biggest fear with signing on at 'six was section 22... when M - the old M - when she decided there'd be 24/7 cysec support for the agents, I very nearly turned in my resignation on the spot. Q was only running our department then, but he stood up and argued that an agent on the ground has enough to deal with on site, and that they only need one voice - their runner's voice - in their ear. He got the cysec teams paired to runners, not agents. To Q!"

The room echoes the toast as the mic is ceded with a muffle of static. Soon, a young man's voice fills the room. "When management decided to consolidate properties after the bombing, and everyone but active testing in applied chemistry had to relocate to Vauxhall I was upset (and only half of that was from the London traffic.)" He paused for the ripple of laughter, "but Q came out and got our full personnel roster, along with the rest of you sorry buggers that got dragged here along with us, and got the elevator bank off the Western service entrance dedicated to the basement levels. No death glares from accounting when you're the only person headed down at 8:55 in the morning and no agents. To Q!"

"He's personally taken on distributing the kits for the double-oh section! To Q!"

"He wrote the budget that got us a server core strong enough to brute-force through polymorphic code engines, and worked the two years - in and out of anti-static suits - it took to get it online. To Q!"

"Cupcakes!"

Q wondered if he should say anything, but the lights flashed in the universal "intermissions over" signal.

"8:20" said Eve, folding his coat over her arm, "we need to get moving." Switch was back at his side, hoisting his overnight bag, and all he could think about was what a great team he had - best in the world.

Q looked out over his employees one last time, hoping his pride showed through his embarrassment, and waved. Everyone waved back, and there were calls of 'good luck' and even a wolf-whistle that was far friendlier than the one that closed his presentation.

* * *

**Interlude: M's Office**

"Q's on his way." Miss Moneypenny reported, standing stiffly at the door.

"You don't approve." M didn't make it a question.

"It's not my place to say," she replied, "do you need anything else tonight?"

"How did Q-branch take the news?"

"Well..." She has a reputation as the gossip in MI-6, and M has the feeling this hell of a story, "Apparently the first thing they asked Q when he got back was if they should wipe the test data from Bang On."

"Bang On?!" he nearly choked on his drink.

"Mmm-hmm. Development name for ACES. Apparently after the 005 fiasco, when Tanner dumped it on Q branch he mentioned that whatever they came up with had to be "bang on" and it stuck. I got there in time to hear R threaten the whole department with time behind the IT desk if they ever used the name outside of the sub-basements.

"Anyway, Q confirms that it's real and goes to hide in his office. After you sent me down I got R to override the lock, and it wasn't ten minutes before he's surrounded by his minions and she's appropriated a whiteboard to make a mission matrix reading 'Q's big date.'"

M chuckled a bit at this. "So what did they decide he needed?"

"To get laid. I got sent to medical for the standard, and then had the unenviable task of trying to find a sexy cardigan. Engineering kitted him some sort of prototype watch on a leather cuff that screamed rent boy, and wardrobe threaded his brows and gave him a mani-pedi."

He can't hold in his laughter anymore, setting down his glass as his sides shake. But she's not done with the story yet.

"So I turn up to collect him at 8:00, make sure we'll be taking the route past accounting and the main cafeteria before catching the lift to the agents lounge, but the boffins are back and they drag us down to automotive. They open the door - and boom!" She giggles a little here, "his entire department's there, holding a party in his honour. Red plastic cups and everything!"

"A party?" he can hardly believe it, "Q-branch never comes to parties."

"Well," conceded Miss Moneypenny, "I don't think they trust what's in our punch, and after that I certainly don't trust what's in theirs."

She did look more unsteady than usual; more weight than he'd expect was being held up by the door jamb. Ah, well, there will be time to satisfy his curiosity later. "Goodnight Miss Moneypenny." M said.

"Goodnight sir."


	3. Quartermasters Exist to Provision

* * *

**_Q branch addenda - Q.1.0 Quartermasters Exist to Provision MI-6_ **

* * *

James managed to shake off Alec and Bill before his shower, so at 8:27 he stood alone in front of the reception desk waiting for Q. Just out of sight he heard the lift ding as it arrived, and then three pairs of feet on the marble floor. The steps went silent just short of the corner - perhaps a last minute conference?

And then, almost-stumbling as if he were pushed, there was Q. Not looking at James, no, he had turned back to hiss at his companions. There was a peal of laughter - Miss Moneypenny's - even as those sinfully pink lips continued scolding.

James took the moment to observe. Q had dressed up; he wore neat black brogues with narrow trousers in a surprisingly sedate blue-grey pinstripe. The trousers disappeared into a dark blue woollen coat cinched tight around Q's slim waist. Delicious. The look was almost feminine, although Q's throat hid behind the well pressed collar of a white shirt and the smooth knot of a navy tie instead of being displayed beneath expensive jewellery.

Then Q looked back at him, blinking owlishly from behind delicate spectacles that James had never seen before. On reflex, the young man pulled the smart leather overnight bag he carried up to his chest, his back going ramrod straight. Absolutely delicious - Alec was right; he really should have done this months ago.

There was a freedom in directness, in both of them knowing how the night would end, that in no way lessened James's pleasure of the hunt. He was determined to have the quartermaster screaming his name before dawn. Q stood, rooted to the spot when James sauntered over and unfurled fingers gone white from their grip on the case. Carelessly hefting it with one hand, he wound the other around Q's waist.

Before Q could transition from freeze to fight or flight James pressed his advantage, flattened his hand against the softness of Q's coat, and pulled him in for a kiss. Q squeaked as their lips met and he dipped his tongue into that opening. He dragged his tongue against Q's upper lip as he pulled back - this was just a taste of things to come - and he lifted his head to put mere centimetres between them.

"Dinner?" He said, eyes crinkling at the bemused expression on Q's face. And, oh sweet heaven, was that eyeliner? He _had_ prepared for tonight.

"Yes, quite," Q replied. His steady voice was at odds with how his nostrils flared as James used the hand on his back to steer him towards the lift.

* * *

As directed, the attendant had left the Jaguar coupe James had been using for the last month idling at the stand. He opened the boot, not missing how Q's hands made an abortive motion towards the hold-all before being ruthlessly jammed into coat pockets. More than just a change of clothes then. He wondered how Q would look illuminated by the laptop he must be carrying while clothed only in James's rumpled sheets. It took him an unconscionable second, one that might well kill him in the field, to shake off the vision.

With his best 'after you' nod he opened the door for Q. The heat of the car cut through the February chill, and James was pleasantly surprised when Q lightly took his proffered hand and lowered himself into the seat.

Rarely was there a gentleman in the seat across from him, but bodies were bodies. After escaping the car park he shifted into second and slid his hand from the gearshift onto Q's knee. He kept it there, warm and heavy though the supple leather of his favourite driving gloves, feeling the perfect stillness of the quartermaster's tensed muscles as they drove.

Q's eyes were wide, and his lips slightly parted. James watched, fascinated, as a shiver of strain started beneath his hand and echoed through Q's body, ending with a puff of breath and a slight shake of the head. Q seemed utterly bemused at how his body blossomed when touched.

A mile or so on, James downshifted for a red light he knew was particularly long and then escalated. The car was stopped, which gave James the freedom to look directly at Q, although Q still stared straight into the London night with the same blank mask he first wore at the National Gallery. That stiff upper lip was nothing but a challenge, and James never was one to back away.

The last time James did this it was in search of garter lace under a skin tight pencil skirt, but the principle held even with dress trousers and a woollen coat. Still starting at the knee, he skimmed his hand up Q's leg, relishing in the slight drag of the leather against the fine fabric and the resiliency of the body beneath. Slowly, the blade of his hand pushed back the heavy folds of the coat, making way for him to palm Q's thigh just short of his groin.

The light changed.

With a final squeeze, James released his prize to pull the car forwards. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Q flick the coat back over his lap with an economy of movement completely at odds with the flush that stained his cheekbones. Q's eyes had gone wide, and James could have sworn that he _actually didn't know_ how his body would respond to a lover's caress. Not that James expected anything different given their interactions over the last three months; clearly Q didn't get out of the lab a fifth as often as a young man should. He chuckled - this was going to be _fun_.

"I fail to see what you find so amusing," Q sniffed. The sodium orange glow of the street lights washed him out, darkening and accentuating the pink of his lips and the blush staining his cheeks. James was confident that if he were to part the layers his quartermaster wrapped himself in that he would find a similar contrast between cock and abdomen. The thought nearly made him turn the car towards his flat - dinner be damned - but James knew that Q didn't take the time eat regular meals, let alone date, and he'd deferred pleasure often enough he knew that the reward of this young man, sated and pliant beneath him, would be worth it.

His hand returned to Q's knee, and the silence stretched between them. Q turned to glare directly at him, his mouth compressed into the same peeved line James's usually saw before he started in on the agent on the other side of the coms.

"When was the last time you were felt up in a car?" James cut him off.

"Grad school."

"So, 4-5 months ago then?" James teased, gratified when Q flopped his head back with a groan to stare at the ceiling.

"Contrary to popular belief, Mr. Bond, not all of us require seven years to finish our dissertations."

"It's James," he corrected automatically, before dropping his voice to a purr, "I bet you'd look delectable in nothing but a lab coat, _doctor_."

"I have told you that we don't really go in for those anymore, haven’t I?" It wasn't a question, and only barely addressed at him, as Q was still staring at the roof. James found himself uncommonly pleased to see Q's sharp edges reasserting themselves after the meek silence that had consumed the young man since the lift.

"And what do you go in for?" He replied.

Q opened his mouth. Closed it. James kept his tone sultry to emphasize the double entendre, "Perhaps exploding pens?"

There it was, Q laughed, almost giggled. Pale fingers interlaced themselves with the driving glove on his knee, "Youth may be no guarantee of innovation, but your comprehensive called and they want their moves back."

"Nonsense. I attended Eton."

"Oh, Eton. Very well, carry on then." And then, to his absolute amazement Q shrugged open his coat with a roll of his hips, and tugged James's hand up his thigh. The young man turned to stare out the window, but even in the dim light James could see the flush creeping down the back of Q's neck.

The drive ended all too soon.

* * *

James had managed to sneak a kiss to back of Q's neck and confiscate his phone at the coat check, and now a luxurious red was waiting at the exact table he'd requested. Everything was going better than planned. The Privateer, with its pale leather and dark wood was at heart a lounge, although the limited menu was so well done that it was oft misrepresented as a restaurant.

James guided Q to sit on a tufted leather chaise tucked behind their table with a firm hand at his lower back.

"A fainting couch? Mr. Bond, after months of listening in on your conquests, I doubt anything you could say would shock me." Q declared while folding his hands primly in his lap.

Tease. "Of course," James responded, nodding at the chair the maître die had pulled out for him. Good man; he kept pulling until he could lift the chair free and leave with it. Q's eyes went wide behind his glasses when James told him to 'budge up' and pinned him against the armrest with the bulk of his body.

"This is completely unnecessary." Petulance now.

"Is it?"

"Anyone with a modicum of intelligence would understand that I am, as they say, a sure thing. There's no need for _this_."

"Perhaps I like drinking fine wine and being seen with a beautiful man on my arm."

Q snorted, although it came out more like a disgruntled kitten than true censure, as James opened the wine without waiting for the maître die to return. The colour was shockingly brilliant against the white linens when he filled their glasses. "To a night out," he toasted. Q turned slightly towards him; the movement hindered by the confined space and the press of James's thigh, and delicately tapped his glass to the agent's.

"You're hardly being seen, hiding back here." Q responded after a few moments of drinking in silence.

"Well..." James let his amusement show, "the dancing doesn't start until ten." The young man whipped his head back and forth, lips moving, before he fixed on the bandstand near the oak panelled bar.

"Dancing?" Q choked out, "you want to take me dancing?!"

"I thought it might be nice to take the lead for a change." James's murmured into his glass, knowing that the young man heard every word. He turned a sly eye to his quartermaster, "if I'm asked to introduce my lovely partner, what name are you going by?"

Q seemed relieved that he isn't pressing for a real name and extracted a business card. James ensured that their fingers brushed when he took it.

"S. F. Fischer Roberts, PhD" he read, noting that instead of the expected Universal Exports logo, there's a circuit diagram in the corner, and the company name was "Bulldog Applied Computing, Ltd."

"Fischer is fine." Q said.

"Fischer," James purred, "not exactly a bedroom name."

"It's my corporate cover. I don't go to tech conferences looking to pull -- oh, thank you." The young man was distracted from his scolding by the arrival of a thick carving board laden with food. "What is this?" Q continued.

"Sirs," the waiter responded, "our signature toast dinner for two, with roast duck in a sour cherry glaze, seasonal vegetables, local cheeses, and fresh figs."

"As requested." James dismissed him. He turned his attention to the food, spooning some of the fork-tender duck onto a single toast round and holding it up to Q. While the glare fixed on him was usually accompanied with threats to send him out with nothing but a water pistol, Q did open his mouth.

The sight of Q's tongue darting out to sample the glaze, followed by the brush of his lips as he closed on the nibble was everything James had hoped for when he made the reservation.

He was disappointed, but not surprised, when (after the fourth or fifth morsel) Q batted his hands away to feed himself.

That, of course, led to round two. When a fat drop of fig juice dribbled into Q's palm, he was ready. James caught Q's wrist, pulling the whole arm across the young man until he could bury his face in that hand and lave away the pale red juice. As he hoped, time and proximity - as well as the perfectly paired burgundy - seemed to be relaxing Q.

James chose to recount a mission when he'd been undercover as a service pony trainer for 'Pippin' in New York City and everything that went wrong as he tried to acclimate the pony and plant bugs across the big apple. It didn't require any input from Q, and the young man had laughed at all the right moments.

"... And her daughter had both hands clapped over her mouth when the old biddy squeezed me and declared 'this is the sort of musculature a horse should have.'"

"What did you do?"

"I tucked her arm into mine, escorted her over to Pippin, and left them both there with a 'madam, that is why you only have a pony.'"

* * *

By the time only crumbs remained on the board, Q had plastered himself into James's side. Probably because the young man was tired; Q's hands were still where they twisted around a napkin In his lap, and when James peered down he was treated to the sight of dark lashes all but closed against pale cheeks. The band was in full swing now, but he gave the young man another song to rest.

"Time to dance," he said, pulling Q to his feet. Once standing, Q seemed only marginally more awake; "The bar has espresso."

"If I must," came the grumbled reply.

"I insist."

Q looked considerably more alert after a double shot of espresso, although the evil eye he aimed at the dancers hadn't changed.

"They're playing our song." James said, setting down his empty tumbler and leading them onto the floor.

"We don't have a song," Q snapped.

"We do now. It's some sort of waltz. Just remember to step back with your right, and everything's the same from there on out." Q was frowning more, but his hand was steady on James's shoulder even as he stumbled over his feet. James pulled him up until their bodies were snug before starting again. "Alright. I know you've been through etiquette training if they made you a department head-"

"I know how to dance." Q hissed.

"Then step back with you right!" James ordered, a smile cracking his face as they started dancing. Q was lanky and uncoordinated; it took a firm lead to move the man across the floor as James counted time under his breath. It was better than he'd imagined.

"Sinful!" a woman shouted, and James went tense, pushing Q to safety behind him as a couple made their way determinedly towards them. They stopped just shy of 13 stone of agent in full bodyguard mode and stared.

"Let's not have a scene," he growled, only to have the woman laugh - laugh! - at him.

"Really, Sinful" she chided, peering around at Q, "you're trying to impress him into bed with your 'I can't dance' dance and you haven't shared your delightful nickname. Tsk tsk."

There seemed to be a number of things to sort out here- "Sinful?" He asked, testing the sound of it.

"Uni," stammered Q.

"Ah."

"You were what, 14, when you started?" The lady was rambling on.

"Cassie..." Q begged.

"Fine. Fine. Introductions to your lovely partner, drinks, and a dance, and we promise to avoid embarrassing stories and not to blame you for the state of London traffic."

"Ta. Ted, Cassie, meet James. James; Ted and Cassie."

"I usually go by Cass now," she all but giggled as James kissed her hand. "Ted, be a dear and speak to the musicians?"

"Cass," James all but purred, tucking her arm into one of his own, "before 'Sinful' here fulfils any more of your criteria, I want the full story of the 'I can't dance' dance.'

* * *

James could feel Q staring at the two of them from the bar as he charmed stories out of Cass. They'd met over ballroom dance: 'His mum thought it would be good for him to touch a human being once in a while. His advisor agreed.' And the 'I can't dance' dance: "it's what you do when a bloke who wants to impress you takes you dancing; don't want to embarrass 'm off before you pull.' How they knew it was him: 'Ted recognized the hip wiggle when he hesitated on his left and you crashed together.' His nickname-

"Madame Cassiopeia Turner!" Q scolded, back from the bar. He handed James the scotch and held out a glass of white wine to her, "your drink. And I imagine this next dance is yours, so you can stop telling tales outside of school."

"Sinful, I've been waiting more than a decade to see you dance with Ted again."

The look Q shot her could stop a double-oh mid rant, but she'd just laughed again. "You are a cruel, cruel, woman," he said between clenched teeth, "I'm not wearing the correct shoes."

"Go break a leg." She swatted him the way mates do, and Q left to stand perfectly straight in the middle of a nearly empty floor. He stared at Ted as the music came on, Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Just a drum, but James recognized it as Spanish, and allowed the question to show on his face.

"Paso Doble," she told him, "the whole club could do the version from Strictly Ballroom, but he was so young watching him was positively _indecent_."

"And now...?"

She grinned back, inclining her head towards the dancers, "you decide."

Q was younger, significantly so, but he and Ted were well-matched as partners. They were circling, posturing, first one, then the other, and James knew he'd never see the slight sway in Q's hips as he stood over a workstation the same way again. They met, and in an explosion of movement were off, Q spinning away, only to be drawn back with a flick of the wrist.

Q maintained his personal space in Q-branch; filled mugs were placed just beyond his elbow, throats were cleared to catch his attention rather than gentle press to a shoulder used with most of the seated technicians. There he was detached, even aloof. But here, he was present, alive. He was the perfect shadow, hands touching and pushing away; half turns that ended with necks snapping back so that eyes could meet. It's wasn't clear if they were going to fight, fuck, or paint the town red, but it was more passionate than James had ever seen the quartermaster.

The music ended, and James swallowed under a collar gone too tight. The two bowed and crossed the floor back to their partners and the crowd applauded and spilled back onto the floor.

"Ta-" began Ted. Only to have Q place a finger over the man's mouth.

"You're welcome," he interrupted.

"Sinful it is," Ted chuckled, "I'd forgotten."

"Or remembered. James was trying to charm the story of it out of Cassie earlier... Although we seem to have distracted him."

Ted was still smiling. He took a card out of his coat, and scribbled an address on the back. "Pop-up ballroom next week; lots of the old crowd will be there. We'd love to see you. It's been ages."

"Please?" added Cass, "I'd love to catch up without getting in the way of your date."

After months of observation, James knew that Q was thinking about it, turning it over to see all the possibilities.

"I am sorry," Q apologized, "But I'm headed back North on Wednesday, and I can't possibly extend my stay."

Disappointment was expressed all around, but another song was starting and their glasses were empty so they slipped back onto the dance floor.

* * *

This time around the waltz felt remarkably too much like any number of missions James has been on: a skilled partner trying to worm secrets out of him.

"Did you tell her my name?"

"Q?"

"No, Fischer!" Q hissed, even as he followed through a turn beautifully.

"Oddly enough, she seemed to think I knew your name, and I know better than to correct a beautiful lady."

"So what did you call me?"

"Only what you are: Sinful."

The younger man almost sagged into the frame - with relief? - and James pulled them closer until they were almost swaying.

"May I have my phone?"

"No." 

"Your phone?"

"No."

"Then you get to contact the company."

"Nobody's contacting the company."

"Boss's going to have my head," Q sighed.

"Not before me," James replied, unable to help himself. He could feel the groan into his chest. "One text, on my phone," he relented.

"Very well."

The rest of the dance went better, and by the next Q was exactly the sort of arm candy James hadn't dared hope for. He never missed a beat, his eyes snapping back to James, taking direction from the smallest of touches and glances. When James dared to dip Q, the man arched his shoulders and back, almost impossibly limber, as he trusted James with his full weight.

"Sinful," James whispered when he pulled Q back to standing, and the way green eyes snapped back to his confirmed that this was a name Q was used to answering to. Better yet, it was a bedroom name.

* * *

Kissing was one of the things James knew he did best. Still, he couldn't help but be pleased when Q actually forgot he was holding his overnight case and dropped it to press more fully against James in the lift. He kept it light, teasing, barely sucking Q's top lip into his just to hear the younger man moan. James repeated the process on the bottom, and found it more plump and firm than he'd expected given how the quartermaster usually had them pressed into an almost bloodless line when dealing with a double-oh.

"I believe this is your floor," Q said breathlessly as the lift dinged and the doors opened. James murmured his agreement, even as he pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss under Q's ear. Catching him as his knees buckled gave James an excuse to wrap an arm around his waist, hoist his bag, and bodily pull him from the lift.

James refrained from pushing Q against the vestibule wall and kissing him senseless; he waited until they were inside his flat.

Once Q's glasses were crooked, hair hopelessly mussed, and lips so slick and red it looked like he'd been sucking cock for hours, James released him. Q looked around as James stepped behind him and slid the coat from his shoulders. For the second time that night he dipped his lips to press at the soft skin at Q's nape, the tiniest sliver bared between collar and hair, delighting in how sinfully Q squeaked when he ended with a slight nip.

"Well?" James asked, resting his chin on Q's shoulder and erection in the cleft of his arse as the younger man surveyed the space.

"My commendations, agent," Q teased, "you've coordinated your flat with your suits."

James was so surprised he laughed. Yes, it was true: the entire place had dark oak floors with slate grey walls and white trim. Classic. Classy. The furniture was sleek, fitted almost, in matching oak and blue-grey leather two shades darker than the walls. The deep reds and blues from the Persian rug and throw pillows were as tasteful (and coordinated) as his ties.

Leaving coats and shoes by the door, he led them to the enormous couch at the far end of the room. A few quick movements had James settled into the buttery leather with Q straddling him. Dark curls brushed his forehead when Q bent down to kiss him, and he lolled his head back to allow free access.

Q was as mouthy here as over the coms: he suckled at James's jaw, just shy of the pressure needed to mark, tugged at earlobes, allowed his lower lip to catch and drag in James's stubble as he rubbed up the side of the older man's face. James palmed his arse though his trousers and Q fell forward to rut against his stomach accompanied by an absolutely filthy open mouthed kiss.

James groaned into it, squeezing freely and licking into _Sinful's_ mouth as the young man squirmed and thrust. He gave as good as he got; sucking in James as if he were air itself and pushing back with a truly wicked tongue. When James yielded, there was no hesitation as Q thrust forward his own tongue, pressing their bodies even closer as he did.

Suddenly he went perfectly still, a delightful wash of colour staining his cheeks, and through trousers, cardigan, and three piece suit James could feel the throb of Q's release.

"Oh. My." Q stumbled over the words, "I apologise for that."

"I should have expected it," James teased, "what with the spots and all." He hadn't realised it was possible for Q to get redder, and it made him feel strangely protective, albeit the sort of protective that came with one of the best erections of his life.

"Sinful," he chided, "sinful, sinful, sinful. Now I'll have to get you all cleaned up before I can play with you." He reached into the young man's hair and pulled him down until their foreheads were touching and they were sharing panted breaths. James let the predator within him colour his voice, "such a compliment, coming for me, taking the edge off. We'll be able to play for hours."

He kissed Q once more, sweet and unhurried now - violently aroused or no, James was the master of his own body - before lifting him by the waist and setting him on wobbly legs. Equally unsteady hands straightened his glasses, and he peered around the flat, before settling on the door James was pointing at.

"That's the dressing room, pass straight through to get to the en-suite. Flannels are in the vanity - did you bring a shaving kit?" Q gave him a shocky nod, "I'll get it and meet you there."

* * *

James left his jacket and waistcoat in the dressing room in hopes of a shared shower, but the sight of Q made him re-evaluate. He was barefoot, with perfectly smooth legs, ending in a pair of tight crimson pants that matched the cashmere jumper he still wore. He had folded his trousers and was placing the neat bundle on the vanity.

James dropped to his knees and stroked up Q's calves and thighs, marvelling at the smoothness.

"You waxed for me?" James asked, his voice rough.

Q laughed, genuine amusement in his tone, "Hardly," he replied, "there isn't anyone on the team that overhauled the MI-6 data centres that still has any body hair. 12 hours a day in an anti-static suit for months and you'd laser it off too."

James shuddered - he'd never needed to wear one (completely unnecessary if you planned to destroy the servers) but the unpleasantness of the adhesive used to affix the suits to the skin beneath was legendary. Q was looking down at him, and laughed again. "Doesn't mean you can't enjoy it," he said fondly. James stroked from ankle to groin and back again, delighting in Q's body.

With one last stroke, and a pat on the bum, James stood and rested his chin on the impossibly soft cardigan at Q's shoulders. He caught Q's eyes in the mirror and winked.

"I was planning on a nice, slow shower," he breathed into the shell of Q's ear, "but seeing - this - before me, I think a change of plans is in order." He hooked his thumbs into Q's pants, feeling the wetness trapped within, and pulled them down without looking. Once free of Q's bony hips, they dropped to the floor, and Q kicked out of them.

The small patch of well-trimmed hair surrounding Q's cock was matted to his skin, but it was easy enough for James to reach around and procure a flannel from the drawer, warm water from the sink, and gently wipe him clean. They were still watching each other in the mirror, blue eyes locked to green, even as the spots of colour on Q's cheeks began to spread.

"Bed?" James asked, at Q's shaky nod, led them into the bedroom.

* * *

With Q safely seated on the edge of his bed, James pushed his way between spread thighs and resumed kissing. Q seemed to adore kissing, and James was happy to oblige, catching pink lips between his own.

They continued for long minutes, until Q was making small noises in the back of his throat and pressing into James each time he pulled back. James met his eyes though the unfamiliar glasses and held his gaze while unzipping the cardigan and tugging it down from Q's shoulders. Not above trickery, James twisted the material over itself as he lowered Q back on the bed, using material to both immobilise him and as a bolster to elevate his hips. Q squirmed, trying to work his dangling legs back up onto the bed, but James held him fast.

"Youth these days. No patience," he scolded.

"So says the man who blew up a tanker trailer of mango concentrate because he couldn't wait five minutes for me to fabricate credentials."

"Tch," James clucked, dismissing the argument, "expediency when faced with drug cartels is completely different from impatience." Q frowned adorably up at him - it was clear he was swallowing back a rebuttal - but he quit wiggling. Compliance assured, James released his grip to kneel between Q's legs.

He slid his hands up and down the gloriously smooth skin, each repetition wrenching full body shivers from Q. Right at eye level, James watched as Q's cock took a renewed interest in the proceedings, rising to poke at the shirttails of his formal shirt. Between that and the rumpled line of his no longer pristine navy tie against the gleaming white fabric, Q looked completely debauched. And they hadn't even started yet.

Because he could, James pinned one splayed leg against the bed by simply leaning himself against it. The other he picked up, setting the ankle next to Q's arse, and leaning in so close that his hair tangled with what little Q had left as he sucked a love bite into the upper thigh on display.

Q smelled sharp; green and fresh. It was stronger here than in his hair, and James let loose a predatory grin as he realised that Q's preparation went beyond dressing up and arriving on time - he'd showered since lunch, no doubt thinking of the evening before him.

James pulled the lubricant he'd found in Q's bag out of his suit coat - he'd recognised the pale yellow tube - and ran a bead along one finger. A similar herbal smell greeted him, although more citrus-y. Stroking that fingertip down Q's bollocks he watched as the young man went rigid at a light touch to the perineum. He chuckled, and while the tension was draining from Q's thighs, slipped that finger in up to the first knuckle.

Q was already slick inside. Oh. More than just a shower to prepare then ... This called for a change of plans.

"You've been thinking about this since the meeting. Preparing. Making yourself ready," he purred, beginning to thrust. The muscle around James's finger was tight, but rapidly gave way, the surrendering flesh pinker than he'd expected. Oh, my. More than even clean and ready - clean and ready and _stretched_.

"Did you frig yourself thinking of me? Push those delicate fingers up your arse, pretending it was my cock?" He added a second finger to the already slick passage and rubbed that bundle of nerves.

Q cried out in garbled wordless syllables that might have been 'no' and kicked violently. James withdrew his fingers. "Sinful," he chided before he grabbed the leg and shoved it back onto the bed. Patted it once; stay, and plunged his fingers back in.

He scissored them gently, enamoured at how Q tried to hold still by clenching his abdomen and the resulting twitches in his cock. Placing a thumb against the back of his bollocks, James applied gentle pressure to Q's prostate from both inside and out. He was unsurprised when Q thrashed again; and dropped to let the foot clear his shoulder before he caught it by the ankle.

"We can't have that," James said, once more returning the leg to the bed. He stood and looked at his prize - hands trapped behind his back by the twisted cardigan, shirt rumpled, tie askew and bare from the waist down. After a moment of struggling Q managed to raise himself up on his elbows; he looked hopelessly mussed as he peered back through skewed glasses.

"Nothing to be done for it," Q apologized, and the way he chewed on his lip made James want to forget the plans he had for this evening. "It's all so very..." He was wiggling again, trying to work free of the cardigan and pulling at the calf trapped between James and the end of the mattress up onto the bed. Oh. Q was trying to flip over and present himself.

"Stop that," James commanded. Q stilled, eyes widening when James surged up and forward to grasp at his tie. He hooked his fingers into the knot, working it free even as he used to drag Q up for a kiss. Q opened beneath him beautifully, just as he had twice before, lips parting as if James was water in a desert.

James kept kissing even after he'd stolen the tie, gently worrying Q's lips between his own even as he pushed the other man back into the mattress. Once he was assured of compliance, he sat back on his ankles between Q's still spread legs and made quick work of his own tie.

Two should be enough, James thought, connecting them with a simple reef knot at the narrow ends. For the third time he returned Q's foot to the bed, this time snugging it tight against the man's arse.

"J- James?" Q's voice was reedy between pants, "what are you doing?" It should have been obvious; silk ties wrapped flat against equally silken skin, big loops binding ankle to thigh leaving just enough slack to rest in the crease of Q's groin.

Twisting the wide fabric at a free end into a rope, he encircled the loops with a hitch between Q's calf and thigh and pulled it tight. The silk slipped and pulled; the loops became cuffs immobilising Q's foot. A stroke of the fat silk tail against Q's cock, and then another hitch to tie it off.

James repeated the process once more with the other end, and once the leg was fixed in place he couldn't help but draw out a moan or five as he jacked Q's purpling erection with a silk lined fist. The dark blue and light aubergine fabrics against the pale olive skin and straining erection was an image James knew he'd want to recreate in depth. Next time.

"Dear quartermaster," he said, savouring every syllable of the title, "I am tying you down so that when I lick into you until you can't even make words, this-" he stroked up Q's leg, palming his knee, "won't take my head off."

"Lick? With your tongue?"

"You've prepared yourself, yes?" The way he petted his quartermaster left no doubt as to what he meant.

"Yes, but, erm... James!"

The first swipe of his tongue confirmed he had. There was a - sinful - hint of sweat on the short fur that remained at the base of his bollocks, but Q's soft skin tasted sharp and green and his entrance was no different. He plunged his tongue in and felt the tight muscle ring of muscle pull at it, welcoming it deeper, as Q whimpered and tried to thrash.

Bound as he was, it only took the lightest of touches for James to hold him open. Still, James pulled back, lapping at the surface until the sharper noises receded into murmurs and the only movement beneath him were shivers. He blew across the spit slicked skin, and was rewarded with a keen, but Q kept his body still and open, waiting for what James would do next.

James used both hands to pin him in place as he nuzzled the bare skin of Q's thighs: fresh and tight and young and _his_. "Oh, Sinful," he breathed, rubbing just to feel the pull of his stubble against it, and admire the reddened trails he left.

"Ready now?" He asked, gently pushing his tongue against Q as he waited for a response.

"Oh. Please," came the breathy response, followed by an endearingly unsteady "carry on."

James pulled back just far enough to chuckle, before punctuating each of his next words with a slow lick across Q's hole. "There. Are. Rules."

"Oh, yes."

"Tell me what you feel," he commanded, stopping to suck at the pliant flesh, before returning to alternate words and licks "every. Single. Sinful. Thought."

"Yes James, please-"

"Beg. Plead. Moan. But when you're close to coming you. Let. Me. Know."

"Tell you everything, so good, so much-aah!"

The sharp green flavour had long been licked away from the skin, leaving only a hint of salt from the sweat beading on Q's legs, but it filled James's senses as he plunged his tongue deep inside the younger man. James could feel the tightness in his own pants and hoped that he'd be able to resist until Q was on the very edge.

The words out of Q's mouth were white noise as James pumped his tongue into that sweet arse, he barely noticed when the vowels event rounder, or the consonants sharper, except in that abstract way of wondering how many languages the quartermaster spoke, until they grew so high and desperate they penetrated the agent's lust fogged brain and he paused, nose to bollocks, to listen.

"Stop! Stop! I shan't be able to help myself..." Q trailed off as his breath raced and his chest heaved. James pulled away to stand, his gaze locked onto Q's green eyes. He deftly extracted first one, and then the other cuff link, dropping them into the glass bowl on the vanity.

"Breathe, Q." He chided, undoing his buttons and shrugging out of his shirt. James knew how to put on a show; there was no hesitation as he turned his back, slipping it down and free in a manner too easy to be called provocative, and too sensual to be anything but. He draped it over the desk chair. Trousers next, shaking the wool gently until it folded neatly along the creases - he hoped Q was taking a nice long look as he bent to lay them over the shirt. Then he shimmed out of his pants and sat on the edge of the bed, next to Q's trussed leg, as he detached the garters and pulled off his socks.

When James looked over, Q was staring at James's cock (a rather magnificent one, if James did say so himself) his breath regulated into the first self-calming pattern 'six taught.

He couldn't help but chuckle. "Not quite what I meant." Q managed to raise a single eyebrow, a silent 'oh really,' even while James tugged him to kneel as he extracted Q from the hopelessly twisted cardigan. Dropping it into a crimson pile on top of his socks he turned back to see Q finish on the last of the buttons and pull off his shirt. Only he could manage to further muss his hair when getting out of shirt that opened down the front.

"Sinful."

"Yes?" Q seemed pleased, responding to the agent's gaze with a small smile.

"Come here," James all but growled, leaning in to steal another kiss. It was the work of moment to get them turned. He settled himself against the padded headboard and guided that luscious mouth down from his face to his groin. He shuddered at the scrape of spectacle frames, just rough enough to stimulate, against his thigh. 

Q knelt, arse high in the air, one leg still bound, and took his first tentative lick at James's cock. The second was more involved, stroking from root to tip with the broad flat plane of Q's tongue. Q continued like this, and while the soft, wet strokes were delightful, they weren't enough. James reached down to grasp Q's jaw, pleased when it only took the lightest of touches to coax him into taking the head into the wet head of his mouth.

Still, when compared to his kissing this was unskilled and sloppy. Every so often there was the scrape of teeth, far more clumsy than alluring. If it hasn't been for the view, he would have ended this much sooner, but as it was James couldn't help but reach out over Q's back and pet his upraised arse. James wouldn't have thought it possible, but Q managed to arch his back even further, forcing his arse into James's hand until his fingers could easily reach Q's entrance. The invitation was irresistible in a way Q's mouth wasn't.

With his free hand James snagged the antique mother of pearl folding knife from the bedside table. He thumbed the catch and the razor sharp blade spring free almost silently. Q pulled off and went perfectly still, hot breath still ghosting over the head of James's cock.

"James?" Q asked, not looking up.

"Hold still," he replied, sitting up from where he'd sprawled against the headboard. Q tensed even further and James switched to rubbing small circles of his lower back as he leaned over to cut Q free. It was almost offensive, how Q went to jelly as he folded the knife away. James was a double-oh agent, he _knew_ what he was doing with a knife, and even an amateur with kitchen shears could have gotten through those ties.

James took advantage of Q's pliant limbs to position him; head cradled on slender forearms, arse raised up on full display, with just enough space between his thighs to see his fully erect cock. Then he retrieved the lube, settled himself behind those thighs, and set to with two fingers. Given the ease with which they penetrated Q, and the breathy whine the young man was making, he probably could have started with three.

"I got your email," James all but growled, "wasn't expecting you to be so courteous, but it does help avoid certain awkward conversations."

Q's head shot up at that, and only the press of James's free hand against his shoulder blades put him back down.

"What email?" He asked, trailing off into a whimper as James added a third finger and focused all of them on his prostate.

"Your latest test results from medical. Clean results." The reason he'd left the condoms in Q's bag when he searched it. 

"Oh." And then again as Q realised what had happened. "Oh! ... That wasn't me. Automatic system function. Must remember to add it into the docu--Ah!"

That press of his fingers had done it's job; he'd never heard the quartermaster cut off mid-sentence before. Pity he couldn't replicate it when Q got stroppy about equipment. Still...

James kept up a steady rhythm until he was confident there was enough stretch he wouldn't hurt Q, slicked his cock, and pushed in. He must hit just right, because Q moaned and clenched down. Delightful, absolutely delightful. With the agent’s hands tight on his hips, Q couldn't push back onto James, but he tried anyway. James could see it the strain in his thighs and back; Q wanted this as much as he did.

Letting his pleasure take free reign, James pumped into Q. He was so tight and hot each stroke was as good as the first. James could feel his breath escape in small grunts and his hands tighten around Q's hips each time he buried himself balls-deep. All too soon he felt himself near the edge, and he clutched Q close with one hand as wrapped the other into an oiled fist around Q's erection and pumped with quick, light strokes.

"More."

Q sounded wrecked, and James tightened his grip without slowing his pace. Moments later Q came, his whole body shuddering through it as he clamped down on James. James responded with a half dozen strong thrusts that drove the young man into the bed before he came long and hard, collapsing onto his lover's body. 

The counterpane was ruined.

"C'mon Sinful, let's get ready for bed."

"Really, Bond, what do you think we've been doing?"

James just laughed as he stripped the cover from the bed, leading Q to the bathroom to get cleaned up for the second time that evening.

* * *

James had been feigning sleep for quite some time, waiting for Q to reach the state in truth, when Q left the bed and padded across the room. There was the sound of a door, and the resulting silence ruled out the bathroom. James preferred it cold; perhaps he'd gone to find pyjamas rather than cuddle close. Or he had a foolish notion about not sleeping in the same bed. He'd give Q another five minutes, enough to dress and find water, before James tracked him down.

Q did't return and James found him in the first place he looked: sitting on the daybed in his dressing room, clad only in the top sheet and reflected streetlight.

"Come back to bed"

Q just shook his head.

"I can't sleep when there's someone awake in my home. Come back to bed."

"You wouldn't be able to sleep with me in your bed," Q told the window, "I steal covers, and I'm up every few hours." James though he seemed much smaller - more vulnerable - than he should have been.

"Nonsense." It was simple enough to lift Q, sheet and all, and nudge open the direct entrance to the en-suite. The man simply sighed; James had been expecting some sort of resistance, before letting his head flop onto James's shoulder. A few steps later he settled Q on the closed toilet and rummaged through a likely drawer - aha - he handed the bottle to Q with a flourish.

"Take two and call me in the morning."

"The bottle is made out to Holly Goodhead - and it clearly says to take 1 as needed before bed" James didn't know anyone could sound that sceptical while looking that debauched. "What are these anyway?"

"Is this like asking 'what are you doing?' during what is clearly sexual bondage?" James drawled, "They're sleeping pills. Decent ones, nicked off an American during that missile thing you had me on that blew out my ears."

Q was looking between him and the bottle with equal trepidation, and James could see him stiffening further. "I generally take three," James offered, "but I have a high drug tolerance." Q snorted, and he allowed a lip to quirk in response - high drug tolerance didn't begin to describe it. "So take the one, she wasn't much bigger than you, come to bed, and I'll suck you off until you scream my name and pass out. Eight hours guaranteed."

"Promise?" Q asked, tipping a pill into his hand and dry swallowing.

"Promise," James assured him, as they left the towel behind and returned to bed together.

* * *

**Interlude: Q-Branch Main Automotive Bay**

It was half-past twelve when Q's heart rate dropped the eight percent below baseline that indicated sleep. Switch wasn't sure how Q'd managed to keep the watch on, but she was grateful that he had. It was time to take what news she had over to those still in automotive. It took a minute to transfer monitoring to her tablet, slide on a headset, and lock the workspace down, but once that was done she hurried over to see what was left of the party. 

As expected, it had degenerated into movie night. There were three or four dozen people left, most of them gathered around where _Despicable Me_ was being projected unevenly over a white concrete wall. The usual suspects from cryptography were playing Go. The remains of week's worth of leftovers, dragged out of Q-branch's three kitchens, and what had once been a prodigious supply of alcohol littered rickety folding tables. 

She made her way over and assembled a cold roast chicken and baba ghanoush sandwich. She was two bites in when Dr. Langston - Geoff - joined her. Her counterpart from micro-computing, he was in his late forties and had on a robin's egg blue tie that matched her hair.

"How's the boss doing?" he asked. Switch held up a hand, and he smiled and waited for her to finish chewing. 

"They went directly from MI-6 to The Privateer - records pulled from the serving system indicate a single bottle of wine and a light dinner - before Agent Bond dragged him down to the dance floor."

Geoff was nodding along, and Switch continued. "Q later sent a text indicating he'd been recognised by some of his acquaintances from university - which was useful since the agent managed to expose them to the paparazzi. Poor things; nothing they upload to the tabloids tonight is going to go through..." She made a mock-pout, and he laughed. 

"The trace on the Jag had them heading directly back to the agent's flat, and Q's bio-tracker hasn't indicated any major trauma, although correlating the readings against Boothroyd's 1987 baselines implies he's orgasmed three times, and is now asleep."

"Good date then," Geoff said, relieved. "I'll let the rest know; I imagine you're headed back up soon."

Switch murmured agreement around another mouthful of sandwich, but he didn't leave.

"Why are you working here?" she asked, impulsively, once her mouth was clear. She felt the blush creeping up her cheeks, and took another bite to hide her discomfort. Thank goodness for midnight snacks. 

"Hm, I suppose because I really hate both publish or perish and the corporate world," he answered after a moment, "I mean, the pay here sucks, and the HR regs are worse, but I've been directing my own research for a decade now. If I were still at Oxford, or anywhere else, I'd be chasing grants, only able to work on what there's funding for. You?"

"Q showed up on campus three days before I was going to poison my thesis advisor, and told me that it wasn't worth it."

"That's it?"

"He may have called the man Sir Dicks-A-Lot, and promised to teach me to program for a polymorphic code engine."

"Sir Dicks-A-Lot?" Geoff looked like he was about to die laughing. 

"Sadly accurate. He was knighted," Switch sighed. "Apparently he really got a kick out of Q's disgrace back in the day." 

Geoff looked at her strangely, and after a moment it sinks in that outside of Cybersecurity Q is just Q. Not the most infamous child prodigy and computer scientist of the last twenty years.

"OK," she backtracked, "let's just say he was... is... well known in the field. For most of us, just having him ask to come work with him was enough."

"Got it," Geoff agreed, easygoing where he could have been curious. They stood in silence for a minute before he lowered his voice as if sharing a secret, "I'm pretty sure Dr. Walker is only here because MI-6 is the only employer on Earth that would actually encourage her unhealthy obsession with aphrodisiacs. I heard that back in the 70's she tried to sleep with every single field agent."

Switch laughed. That's so her that even if it's not true it should be. Back when Boothroyd was Q, he used to leave short instructions ('massage and fellatio, please' was the most common) on the chalkboard outside of the safe room he used to crash in after days-long R&D binges. Somehow, Dr. Catherine Alice Walker had fixed it so that she was always at the top of the volunteer list for fulfilling those requests.

Good mood restored all around, Geoff helped Switch load another sandwich and some almond crescent cookies onto a plate. Waving goodbye she started back to Q's office, thinking. The last time she checked at least 30% of the department, including her, was on the volunteer list, but this Q has never left a note on the board.

If he was more relaxed tomorrow afternoon, Switch thought, awkward or not, she'd tell him he should. What's good for Q was good for Q-branch.

Besides, there were at least a dozen people ahead of her...


	4. Protypes and Initial Discoveries

* * *

**_Q branch addenda - Q.26 Prototypes and Initial Discoveries (Are Always Rubbish)_ **

* * *

Q woke up to anaemic London sunlight on his face and James Bond lazily rutting against his back. As usual, he was curled on his side, but that was where usual ended. He was held firmly in place by a strong arm that snaked over his shoulder and across his chest. Q's mind raced, where were his glasses? His clothes? Had he actually slept eight hours? What did one say in this sort of situation? 'Good morning' seemed rather insufficient.

"Mmm, you're up," the agent rumbled. Well, that was one answer. The hand on his chest slid down to his groin, even as Bond continued his slow grind against Q. He could have sworn another erection was physically impossible after last night, but Bond coaxed him into full hardness with deft strokes.

Q answer of "so are you" came out only as a garbled moan as the hand on his cock twisted _just so_. His incoherence was met with amusement, a rumbling almost silent laugh that shook the chest pressed against his back. Bond sat up, tugging free an arm Q hadn't realized he'd been using as a pillow.

His prick was heavy between his legs now, needy and aching. But having got Q up, Bond had other ideas for his hands. He tugged one of Q's knees to his chest and pinned it there while cupping Q's exposed bollocks with palm and fingers. Q felt the heavy pad of Bond's thumb rubbing against his perineum, pressing into his overstimulated prostate through the skin. Then Bond flexed his hand, and stretched his thumb further to stroke over Q's hole. With each stroke of Bond's the grip on his balls tightened and it pressed harder, alternately seeking entry and stimulating Q until he leaked sticky drops of precome. 

He felt himself pushing back, begging with the cant of his hips until the blunt digit breached him, made easier by the remnants of last night's encounters, only to disappear a moment later. Q keened, a wordless sound of pure need he hadn't know he could make, and was rewarded with a teasing smack on his rump.

"Impatient," Bond said, sounding fond, "we need more lube." And there it was, cool gel dripping onto his heated flesh, being pressed into his opening. Dr. Alice must've spiked it, because each fingertip was sending bolts of pleasure straight up his spine. Still, Bond only hinted at penetration, slowly working bead after bead into the surface and Q knew he'd not get more until the agent thought he was ready. And despite that the reason he was in this bed was that it was bloody company policy, he was more than ready.

In for a penny, in for a pound. Q reached both arms around his raised knee, and interlaced his fingers to hug it tight against his chest. See? Ready. No need to hold him in place.

"Sinful..." James breathed his nickname as a filthy benediction, palms spreading his arse wide to let the agent see, and then releasing in an obscene massage. He felt two thumbs press against his hole, pulling him open on the next spread using only surface friction. "So, very, very, sinful," Bond whispered over Q's moans, as he repeated the motion again and again, "you adore this."

And then he felt a thick thumb enter, slick and easy against pliant flesh, but not long enough to reach where he needed it the most.

"Please," he begged, "please." But there was only a rumble of laughter in response as Bond continued to open him infuriatingly slowly. Q's begging gave way to moans, and still Bond only worked that one digit into him. Pulling himself together he gasped out Bond's name, only to be corrected.

"James," said Bond, "my lovers call me James. You did last night. Why not give it another go?"

"Don't think of you that way," the words were slurred as they fell from his mouth, "can't think of you that way.... issssh dangerous." Still, Q was rewarded with a second thumb, and a glorious sensation as Bond pulled in opposite directions.

"More dangerous if you don't," Bond warned him, tugging firmly enough Q half suspected there was space between the agent thumbs for his cock - or maybe everything just felt bigger when you had your attention focused by a double-oh.

"Please, oh! Please! ... James!" Q managed to plead, and was rewarded when the hands gentled, only lightly tugging at his now-pliant rim.

"Wise man," Bond, James - he must remember James - breathed into his ear. The agent laid back down, and pressed his body against Q's. His cock breached Q; between the prep and yesterday there was no pain, only a bit of stretch as he sank balls deep with slow, deliberate thrusts.

"James!" Q pled again, releasing his leg to claw at the sheet. He kicked like an over eager puppy, the same involuntary movement that got him in trouble last night, but that was nothing to a field agent. One heavy thigh thrown over his legs folded Q into the mattress, pinning him, holding him down to be fucked into. While only a fraction of James' weight transferred from his chest onto Q, those few stone were enough to fully immobilise him.

Q's world was reduced to the smell of linen and cedar and the feel of each stroke as his face pressed into the pillow and he tried to wiggle and rut against the sheets.

"So eager. Shall we find out what you can do before your first cup of earl grey?"

"Oh yes, please, yes" he murmured, the sensations leaving him all but incoherent, "I can be good, so, so, good."

The warm laugh was all James as the man rolled off of him onto his back, but the strong hands that lifted him belonged to Agent Bond. Q found himself straddling perfect abs; he reached behind him to grasp James's cock before the agent could finish breathing out "ride me." Broad hands gripped his thighs loosely, and while they could easily hold him down, the lightness of the touch spoke volumes about the confidence Bond had that his every request would be obeyed.

Q knew he should have felt some embarrassment at how fast he acquiesced. There was no hesitation as he sank back onto that thick cock, consumed with chasing his own pleasure. He heard his voice as it stuttered over an oh-oh-oh as James bottomed out and his arse ground against pubic hair. While Q could recognise he was acting like a slag, the drugs and endorphins singing through his body left him too blissed out to care.

He lent forward, spine so curved that his hair fell from his bowed head and brushed over sculpted pectorals. A perfect world of musculature, where he didn't have to be able to think. One where James just kept pumping into him, every muscle tensing in symphony as he lifted Q off the ground at the apex of his thrusts.

Q licked at a nipple and rolled his hips back in appreciation. He ghosted his lips over taunt skin, moaning into an impossibly toned chest when Bond stroked past his prostate, the lightest of pressure rekindling pure _need_ within him. James chuckled, and repeated the motion. If it were possible to die from pleasure alone, Q was sure his heart would have stopped.

It seemed an eternity before he spilled, untouched, and collapsed down into his own mess. They were chest to chest, and he buried his face in the juncture of Bond's shoulder and neck, whimpering with overstimulation, as the man did not stop.

"Shhhh," Bond soothed him, carding one hand through hair even more mussed than usual, "relax. You'll enjoy this."

Q did not believe that relax was the right word, but all of his muscles went limp when the agent pinned him tight against his own body with a hand in his hair and one at his waist as he finally sped up. The new angle ensured that Q was _stimulated_ each time Bond bottomed out within him. He sobbed and begged into sweat-salty skin, both for it to stop and for more, barely remembering to call Bond 'James' as tight snaps of the agent’s hips bore into him again and again.

In time with his thrusts James whispered a filthy litany: how beautiful he was, how sweet, how tight and hot. Fantasies - the fourth floor rosewood conference table made multiple appearances. "You'd beg for it, wouldn't you, Sinful? Have me spread you over it, hit _this_ every time until you left nail marks in the wood and painted the underside with your spunk."

Q began to shiver as his traitorous cock tried to take notice - again - and hijacked the rest of his overstimulated body when it couldn't have its way. Finally, mercifully, Bond's words became groans, and his hair was released so the agent could clench both hands around bony hipbones, immobilizing him as Bond shuddered through his own orgasm.

He didn't dare fight that grip - or speak - until the agent softened enough to slip out without further movement on Q's part.

Q didn't want to consider the bruises. He was certain that barring the immediate application of ice he'd be wearing handprints for the next week. And what was worse, he was too shagged out to care. All he wanted was to sleep for days, and then lock himself in the office with enough tea to drown in.

"Shower," Bond declared, scratching at the drying come between them. "On your feet."

* * *

"Would you like me to do your hair?" Bond asked.

"No," Q found himself saying. Bond looked crestfallen, why had he done that?

"Perhaps your back then?"

"Certainly not," he refused. He hadn't meant to refuse. After the last twelve hours what was another trespass against his body, and a minor one at that?

So, of course, when Bond asked why not he responded with, "I think you've trespassed against my body quite enough over the last twelve hours."

He blushed, shame and fear and hot water mixing to turn him pink _all over_. He was still analysing the best routes to flee the shower when Bond chuckled. He backed up, hands in the air, until he hit the stone wall behind him.

"Give me a show then." Lazy and demanding, did no one ever defy this man? His eyes raked over Q as he dropped his hands to start fisting himself as if he hadn't just come.

"I'd rather not," Q said before he could stop himself. Something was wrong. Very, very, wrong. He has absolutely no brain-mouth-filter. He turned his back on the agent, biting his lip to stop from speaking as he thought very, very, carefully about what he wanted to say. The tone hadn't been too sharp, he could save this; "would you tell me if I'm getting it wrong?" Q continued in a much smaller voice. His shampoo was still on the shelf, he worked it into lather before applying. He made sure to his tip his head back towards Bond as he curved his spine and presented his arse.

"Do you want instructions?" James said into his ear, tight against his back now, his breath hot and wet even over the spray.

Q tried not to answer. Sincerely, and with everything he had tried. He bit through the lip he was worrying at while trying. "No," He still gasped out over the taste of blood in his mouth.

Oh sweet heaven, they'd done it. Truth serum. Of course it had to be an unforeseen reaction with the American drugs, and of course he had to discover it naked in the shower with a man with a license to kill, and of-bloody-course that man was one the handful in the world with enough clearance to hear what Q might say.

Shit. If he reported into Q-branch they'd probably leave him here until it wore off. Shit.

"Shit." He snapped forward, away from Bond, uncaring of the suds now sluicing down his face.

"Is something wrong?" Bond asked, turning Q around to face him. The hot water streamed over them both as he grabbed at Q's chin.

"Yes," Q said, biting down on his injured lip to stop there. He wanted to tell Bond _everything._

"What?" soft and sweet, chased with a kiss and a tongue laving against his injury. Q tried his best to return the kiss; kissing wasn't talking, but Bond was an agent - detecting someone who was trying not to talk was screening requirement number one. "Those sinful lips won't get you out of this... What is it?" Bond pushed.

"Bad drug reaction," that was the truth, but he just couldn't stop, words tumbling from him. "Well, perhaps a good drug reaction. I think we've finally found a working truth serum. Pharmaceuticals probably tested the nerve agent with that pink shit before, but the pills, those are new. Altogether," oh god, he was laughing, "boom!"

Bond turned off the water. He was all agent now, one hand checking Q's pulse, the other against his forehead. Q wouldn't be surprised if he pulled a torch out of the medicine cabinet to check how fast his pupils dilated.

"You were inside of me not ten minutes ago. I think you'd have noticed if my temperature was off."

"Ten minutes ago I didn't know you were high."

"I am not high. Mild euphoria, sympathetic over sensitisation of pleasure receptors, and the effects of what you gave me. Hardly recreational."

"Boffins. What would you estimate the street value of those as?"

Q could feel his chest constrict; he knew street values for hundreds of drugs in dozens of countries, none of them England. Where to start? What if he couldn't come up with a value...?

"Q!" Bond shouted, grabbing his shoulders. He pushed him against cool tiles, grounding him. "what happened?"

"I was unsure of the correct answer. If possible, could you please avoid open ended questions? I seem to be," he paused, "distressed when I cannot answer promptly and completely."

"Understood." Bond backed up, giving him space, and Q could see him re-evaluating the morning in light of this. It was a comfort when they left the shower, rinsed if not clean, and stood as far apart as the double vanity allowed while they brushed their teeth.

* * *

Bond didn't let him out of sight when they returned to the bedroom, following a bare step behind Q, although he was mercifully silent. First things first; Q rested his arm, palm up, over the thick cuff of the watch he'd removed to shower and pulled the buckle tight to snug the biosensors in place. He did his best to ignore the agent's curiosity as he skinned into the clothing he was handed out of the case: a pair of navy pants with the same fuck-me magic as last night's and a dark gold dressing gown that smelled suspiciously like Eve.

Bond examined him head-to-toe, again looking like the cat that ate the canary. Even though the agent was only in a towel; a very, very small towel, the expression in his eyes made Q feel completely naked. The way Bond was stalking towards him didn't help either. Hands caressed the silk from shoulder to wrist, settling in a grip high on his forearm. Bond escorted him to sit on the daybed at the end of the dressing room in a manner that was 90% chivalrous, 10% I-will-pop-your-elbow-out-of-joint. "Stay here," he commanded.

He dropped the towel. Q shut his eyes; what he didn't see he couldn't comment on. He focused on himself; his heartbeat and breathing, the sensation of Eve's gown, even the soreness between his thighs and the dribble of come drying between his cheeks. A half hour - alone - in that shower would be glorious.

He didn't open his eyes until that grip was back beneath his elbow, strongly encouraging him to stand. Bond was dressed in one of his impeccable suits, although the jacket was slung over his free arm. The shoulder holster with his Walther PPK short was at eye level; Q could think of a hundred reasons to arm yourself at ten in the morning, none of them encouraging.

Bond led Q through to the sitting area, the door all but vanishing into the wall panelling behind them, and settled him into the corner of a wonderfully yielding sofa. Q half knelt, curled into the upholstery to avoid pressure on his arse and watched Bond. He paced a moment, agitated, before taking what was obviously his chair and firing off a question: "Is there anything you think you wouldn't answer?"

"No."

"Even if I asked your name?" Bond pressed.

"Even that," Q tried hard not to provide extra information, he failed. "Although I left it behind when I started at 'six."

"I can't believe they fast-tracked you at twenty." Bond seemed truly incredulous; people who left their names behind for a letter were usually well into the "going grey" stage of their life.

"It was more of a witness protection program," he acknowledged.

"You turn in all your little hacker buddies for a safe spot at 'six?"

"No," he all but fired back the answer; there was nothing he hated more than being tagged as a hacker. "I wrote a world shattering thesis on the application of polymorphic code on reactive networks, postulating it could be the basis of the first true artificial intelligence."

Bond looked at him strangely. He sighed.

"To write about the application of code, you need to apply it. I had working version of a polymorphic code engine and functioning sample programs." Still no recognition. "I made an OS that could crack standard encryption like an eggshell and then programmed it to re-time traffic signals and train schedules to minimize strain on London's transportation network."

"In your pyjamas?" If Bond meant the question as an apology, it was a piss poor one.

"Most of it," he confessed, still unable to help himself. "I didn't usually bother getting dressed unless I was going dancing."

"Dancing or _dancing_?"

Q knows, knows, that Bond is all but incapable of refraining from flirting, but that doesn't make questions _he has to answer_ any more welcome. "Both," he replied as evenly as possible, following with a question of his own, "you watch Doctor Who?"

"I'm British," Bond replies, shrugging in a way that is more a display of muscles under the pressed shirt than a sign of self-depreciation. "Besides, I was trying to land a boffin."

"Congratulations. Success." Q knew he was bitter, but he hoped it sounded teasing.

Either he accomplished it, or Bond was a hopeless opportunist, because the reply was "Would you like to do this again next Friday?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Just because I have adhered to the terms of my employment and made myself complicit in this... debauchery, does not mean it is something I would have chosen, had I any choice in the matter." He had no hope that went over well. Q wrapped himself tighter in Eve's dressing gown and thought longingly of the oversized jumper in his overnight bag.

"You enjoyed it."

"I did."

"More than that - you begged for it."

"I did," Q answered, he kept his voice flat although he had no hope it would negate the breathy pants of more he'd opened the morning with. He wrung his hands in lap, and changed the subject. "Do you have a kettle? I've come more often in the last day than I usually do in a month, don't grin like that - it's the truth - but it hardly offsets your appalling lack of tea."

"Appalling lack of tea...?" Bond parroted, shaking his head as he turned away. Q pushed off the sofa to follow into the kitchen, where he had both a kettle and some horribly expensive citrus spice loose tea that smelled like ambrosia. Neither of them spoke while Q warmed the pot and prepared the tea. Bond had a proper tea service, an Art Deco pattern pressed into the gold banding, and Q carried the tray to the sitting area while Bond looked bemused.

He didn't even try to stop the little noise of pleasure he made on the first sip.

"Good?"

"Oh yes. Ceylon base, I think, very fresh. Sorrento lemon, barest touch of clove, and-

"That's enough."

This man interrogated people for a living, and Q recognized the phrase from over the coms. He would not, would not, be grateful for having his tongue stopped. Q focused on his tea, luxuriating in its scent and smoothness to avoid saying 'thank you.'

"You make sex noises at your tea." James observed. Thank goodness he didn't have to respond to that. "Why did you beg?"

"Because you're bloody fantastic in bed!"

"But you don't want to do it again."

"Mmm," Q hummed into his tea, repeating 'not a question' over in his thoughts.

"Do you want to have sex with me again?" James pushed.

"Yes," Q spat, "but I don't think that I should."

"And what do you think that you should be doing?"

"My job: we're going to have to fit-out a mass deployment when the bulk of you lot return to the field in two weeks’ time, pharmaceutical R&D is about to go into overtime because of this," he gestured at himself, "cysec needs at least twenty hours of mine on the satellite capture plan, it'd be nice to personally oversee automotive's testing on the new rocket launchers, and then there's the thrice damned quarterly budgets."

James looked somewhat contrite, had he thought that all the quartermasters did was hand over guns and travel documents? Admittedly, that was exactly what Q-branch wanted the agents to think, but he'd thought the double-ohs, especially 007, knew more than they let on.

"Anything I can do to help?" James finally offered.

"Get me my phone, tablet, and breakfast? I should check in." The sour lemon expressions confirmed that James had been trying to flirt. Oh well. Truth serum. Still, you didn't get to be a top agent without being able to handle a change in plans, and he gave Q a lazy salute as loped off through the door of the bedroom to fetch the electronics.

* * *

Switch and Dr. Alice arrived as James set a beautifully folded omelette in front of Q. He performed quick introductions and tried to get one of the toast points into his mouth before Dr. Alice noticed. Scientific protocols be damned, after four rounds of sex and having hardly eaten at dinner he was starving.

It wasn't to be.

"M's on his way," Dr. Alice announced, "he should be here at quarter of. Have you eaten anything solid yet?"

"No," Q said, rather more mournfully than he'd have liked.

"A full work up first then," she ordered.

"You want it?" Q asked Switch, gesturing at his plate. She nodded; techs were as bad as agents about eating when they could. He pushed it towards her, keeping only his cup and saucer. Ever polite, she thanked Bond and dug in, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the food.

In counterpoint, Q felt the weight of Bond's eyes as he shrugged out of the dressing gown and draped himself backwards over one of the dining chairs in nothing but his pants.

"Lumbar puncture or A-line first?" Dr. Alice asked.

"A-line. I get a bit dizzy after losing spinal fluid."

She was efficient, the line was in the back of his wrist and the bloods drawn before Bond finished cooking down the additional mushrooms he'd put on when Q had announced there were technicians on the way.

Given the need for sterilisation and anaesthetic, the lumbar puncture took a bit longer. She filled an unholy number of tubes, and he felt the beginning of the usual light-headedness overtake him.

* * *

Q came to in Bond's bed to the sound of Switch's typing at a steady 360 characters per minute from the sofa.

"How long was I out?" he asked, adding "how'd I get back here."

She laughed, "10-15 minutes, and Agent Bond carried you. After he caught you and prevented your maidenly head from cracking open when you fainted."

Q groaned. "Pics or it didn't happen."

Switch was laughing so hard, hands over her stomach as she bent double, that Q feared she might lose the omelette. When she managed to get the tablet turned towards him he saw why.

Fuck-a-doodle-doo.

There he was, bundled back into the dressing robe, cradled in Bond's arms. The robe and James's hair were practically glowing in the sunlight, and his dark hair and the black leather of his wristwatch made his paleness seem unearthly and fey rather than sallow and sickly.

"You've already put it on the Q-branch intranet, haven't you." Statement, not a question.

Switch just grinned. "My revenge for having to deal with the paparazzi. Three of them got good shots of you last night, and thanks to your mates from uni one even put together who you were. The only repeatable headline proposed was 'Artificial Intelligence to Brushwork, can we expect Yea- er- him... to _do_ chemistry next?'"

Bond popped his head in the door then - goodness knows how long he'd been listening behind it - and announced M's presence.

* * *

They ended up sitting at the dining table, with M at the head. While Dr. Alice got her pound of flesh (30 mL of blood) from the A-line, Q used his other hand to shotgun the tumbler of orange juice Bond set in front of him and tuck into his omelette.

M looked at him strangely.

Oh. Well, yes. He wasn't dressed, with at least one visible bruise from last night's ... activities, and was eating his way through a medical procedure. All fairly routine at Q-branch, but management (M-branch in particular) seemed to have more _normal_ expectations. Sod that, Q thought. He was hungry, and if M had a question he could ask it.

"Q, what happened?"

"Best shag of my life, sir."

M visibly boggled. Bond just smirked as he sat down next to Q, and his staff practiced their neutrality.

"Miss Anderson and Madam Walker informed me that you are under the effect of a drug cocktail forcing you to tell the truth."

"Correct. When I noticed the effect this morning I contacted Technician Anderson, and had her relay the information to Doctor Walker - my current head of pharmaceuticals. They arrived about thirty minutes prior to you, and proceeded to pull a full blood panel as well as a lumbar puncture to examine the contents of my neuro-cerebral fluid while I'm under the influence. I understand that we will need to collect bloods every thirty minutes until it wears off, and then run a second puncture and move into a monitoring phase. Dr. Walker, if you would?"

Q only half listened as she went though the situation and the sampling protocols. The first of the drugs, the pink stuff, was wear off this afternoon or evening, and everything should be completely flushed by Monday afternoon. Right then he absolutely needed to finish this omelette before he a) died of hunger or b) drooled on the table. The egg was buttery and fluffy, perfectly folded around mushrooms in Demi glacé with a lovely sharp cheese grated on top. In line with Q-branch nutritional standards, not that Bond had access, there was even a small side salad of spring herbs and nasturtiums with a fresh pot of tea.

Omelette or no, the moment there was a lull he volunteered to go back to his flat and sleep it off. As a bonus, it's close enough to headquarters that it'll only take moments to get him over to medical if something went wrong.

Dr. Catherine Alice Walker, looking like she'd scold him with is full name if she knew it, and Switch, looking like she just might tell if it meant she could watch, vetoed that. For _reasons_ , most of which - like he shouldn't be alone - he couldn't have argued down without stretching the truth. Which was, unfortunately, impossible at that moment.

"Medical then, one of the longer-term recovery rooms?" Q proposed, hopeful. Dr. Alice nodded, and M looked less constipated, which meant that they might have been close to getting Q out of here. Might have been until his tablet beeped: urgent message from Q-branch.

_Boss, what's the root password to the SMXT server cluster?_

He didn't even think while he keyed it in and hit send. It was only when he was roused by the acknowledged chime that he sucked in a mortified breath. Bond leaned way too far into his personal space while smelling way too good and read the tablet. Spies. You'd think they could _try_ for subtlety.

"Ooh, it works over text!" Switch crowed, and then looked up and where Q was blushing - hopefully they'd put it down to what he just did rather than Agent Bond's proximity - and Bond was looking expectantly across the table at her.

"Erm... sorry, boss." She didn't look sorry, and Q'd bet ten to one she was locking him out even as she 'apologised.'

"You need to be off-line until this is clear," M declared. "Technician Anderson, please take Q's tablet, work mobile, and any other MI-6 devices back to headquarters and secure them."

"Yessir," she answered, with a bit of unholy glee.

"Q, do you have any non-work communication devices?"

"3 Personal mobiles, old school rotary on the land line, cray server cluster, x-box and a modded PlayStation." Well, fuck. That certainly included several somethings he never wanted to confess - Switch was never going to let him live down the rotary, Bond the gaming systems, and M the unmonitored server.

"Do you have any here?" M clarified, looking both annoyed and enlightened.

"Just the mobile in my overnight bag."

"Shut it off and give it to 007. You'll be staying here with him until Dr. Walker certifies that _everything_ you've taken is out of your system. Consider it a vacation."

Q would rather have it counted it as work - so what if he already had months of comp time he'd never get to use - when it occurred to him that not only would he forego comp time, he'd actually be losing time accrued. Q ordered his thoughts for a truthful-yet-convincing counter argument, but when he was ready to speak Bond had already helped M into his coat and was holding the door for him.

"How'd you mod the PlayStation?" Switch whispered when Bond and M disappeared into the vestibule.

"Not much: jailbreak, including DVD zones, and I added a sort of parallel gaming built in to double the number of players - 4 person racing up to 8, or dual cooperative in a single screen - I think I've had it out for game night."

"I've got a bedsit in the SWB."

Q laughed. "You mean a coveted 700 square foot open floor plan in Q-branch co-housing South-West with at least a dozen techs on wait list if you chose to leave."

"So says the man still in his first digs at the Q hive."

"I like the light."

"You really do," she laughs, "and all this time we thought you were taking the piss when you refused the director's suite."

Bond's been gone long enough he must have headed down to the lobby with M; Q figured that they have at least another five minutes of privacy given the state of the lift. Dr. Alice had set up in the kitchen - there's a sampling rack next to the fridge, and a digital temp readout stuck to the front of it. He cleared his dishes into the sink and asked her for more detailed instructions.

Q probably should have made a run for the shower instead.

It didn't surprise him that he'd prioritised science over personal comfort, but he was irritated that Dr. Walker insists on starting from the beginning when Bond returned. As if he'd _ever_ trust the agent to run a medical procedure. She'd finished up by pulling out a new lab notebook from her bag and handing it to him.

"Full report since yesterday morning, sir," she instructed, "food, drink, excretion, pharmaceutical and chemical exposure, level and type of physical exertion, emotional state, and any other factors you think might have contributed."

"Thank you," Q murmured, fanning though pale green pages. He wasn't sure if writing this up was going to be better or worse than the quarterly budgets. Having completed her work Dr. Alice was loading the samples she'd collected into a cooler for transport.

"Go Dutch on a cab?" she called to Switch.

"Sure."

Bond was staring at them, confused. Field agents. The bastards never had to try and justify the use of a cab over the tube for reimbursement. "M is sending a car," he said after a long moment. "You're to head back to Vauxhall, and technician Anderson is to report to his office for hardcopies of the Q-branch budget and return here."

"I thought I'd gotten out of doing those today," Q all but whined.

Everyone else laughed. It wasn't funny.

* * *

Q was stretched out on the couch reading the trashy SF novel Switch had left for him when agent Bond returned from seeing his technicians to the car.

"She knows your name," he accused Q.

"Everybody knows my name. Hell, Bond, even you know enough you could google me." Q took in the speculative look and hastily amended, "please don't. It sets off all sorts of alarms."

"So, what is it?"

"Taliesin Yates." Q said. The lift of Bond's eyebrow clearly communicated 'you've got to be kidding me.'

"Mum's name is Gwenhÿfar." This time Bond did snort. "You can see why I went by Sinful," Q replied.

"So why does the world know of Taliesin Yates?" Bond asked.

"Were you in town in for London's Perfect Day?" Q pronounced it so clearly even if Bond had never heard of it he'd know Q was talking about a specific event. "That was me. 20% average reduction in surface travel time, 35% for the underground. Plus a corresponding reduction in smog and a significant - if not statistically verifiable - drop in A&E trauma admissions."

"That was a hoax," Bond's voice was flat - he must've thought Q delusional to claim responsibility for something so thoroughly debunked. Q couldn't help a bitter chuckle from welling up.

"Let's just tell Mr. Mallory that I'm cured then, and I'll head back to my lab." Q snarked, more than done with this conversation. He leaned forward and pushed himself off the sofa, only to meet a solid wall of double-oh agent standing in front of him. Fine. Q sat back down.

It really was unfair how fast and silently they moved. Bond was sitting in his chair before Q could tug the dressing gown back over his legs, and Q wasn't sure if the expression on his face was pride or pity. At least Bond seemed to have accepted that there was a cover-up.

"Why a hoax?" This time question is gentle, but it's still a question, and Q feels the flush spread across his face.

"Family. Mum was teaching in Russia at the time; she was picked up by the Veselá Petrova. Apparently the only thing that stopped them from getting to me was the paparazzi surrounding CentreComm. I collapsed from exhaustion while analysing the data, and woke up with an IV in what I thought was prison cell, and turned out to be a terrible old field hospital.

"It turns out it was more than just the Veselá Petrova; although they were - bless them - the only organisation prepared for me to succeed. 'Six had stopped at least two dozen other attempts by foreign powers and organised crime syndicates before I came to. Boothroyd, one of the senior managers from intentions, and my advisor sat down with me and explained what had happened - they'd already sprung mum - and told me the only way forward was to discredit my work. Corrupt and destroy the distributed code engines, pretend the whole thing was a conspiracy and that I was the charismatic young thing in front of it."

Q knew his bitterness was obvious when he pitched his voice higher to sound just like the lady from intentions he'd initially refused to listen to, "'Oh yes, we can keep you and your family safe, just, would you please send the study of reactive networks and artificial intelligence back to the Stone Age? Ta.'"

"But you did."

"I did. In 83 hours I tried every stimulant Q branch has invented or procured, wrote my first virus, undid years of my work, ruined my advisor and favourite professor, and was a general discredit to the entire field of computer science. Then I kicked around the secure apartments for a week or two while I caught up on sleep, and then I ended up stuck in Q-branch because I was so bloody bored with protective custody I hijacked the lifts with a bastardised version my optimisation code."

"The lifts are bloody awful," Bond shot back.

"Management made me turn it off. Apparently having the doors start to open when you're four paces away, being addressed by name, and then getting deposited at the correct floor, every time, is," Q couldn't help but make air quotes, "creepy."

Bond laughed.

"And I didn't even get to implement the music module!"

Bond laughed harder. "That doesn't explain why they know who you are," he said, after catching his breath.

"I gave two public addresses and had a half dozen televised interviews leading up to the Perfect Day," Q replied, and then - although he could have stopped - he added: "also, there was the CCTV sex tape." Mostly because Q wanted to see Bond's reaction to the words 'sex tape' more than he'd like to admit.

Q wondered if a professional assassin could die of laughter.

"You have a sex tape?"

"Technically, no. Lots of kissing, partial nudity, a good grope or two, and then we slammed my advisor's door and the best Foley artists at Q branch circa 2000 took over. No actual sex."

Bond was a rather alarming shade of red, and no sound came from him as he laughed so hard he shook.

Q let himself laugh too - the whole thing had been rather ridiculous and this predicament was even more so. The egg timer went off with a melodic 'ping,' and all he could do was laugh harder as he stumbled into the kitchen to reset the thing and take bloods.

* * *

Q told his first untruth at quarter past two, over an hour before the earliest projected time, when Bond asked if he was hungry on his way into the kitchen.

He was, but he was also within twenty minutes of finishing his write-up of the whole situation and not having to return to it after eating was a bigger lure. The 'I'm fine' slipped out without conscious thought, only to be followed by a string of curses when Q realised what he'd done.

"You don't sound fine," Bond said, returning from the kitchen to look him over.

"I'm hungry," Q replied, "but I told you I was fine. There's a hidden variable here. I should call in."

Bond just shrugged, after this morning's ... conversation, he'd responded to Q's condition by saying as little as possible. This wasn't much different than the way he lurked at the edges of Q-branch's public areas, so Q reverted to his usual strategy of ignoring the blue eyes fixed on his every move. A strategy made easier once he'd thoroughly scrubbed James' scent - and come - off of himself in that hedonistic shower and re-emerged dressed in his favourite battered jeans and a turtleneck sweater. It was easier for Q to be dignified when his clothing hid the love bites trailing up his thighs and neck.

* * *

There were enough people at the kitchen island eating chicken salad sandwiches with hothouse tomatoes and crisps that it could have been a Q- branch tea. If you ignored the crisps. And the sunlight. And the pair of double-oh agents.

Bond had responded to the return of Switch and Dr. Alice, along with one of the Q-branch couriers and R herself, by crossing the rear landing to drag Agent Trevelyan over. Apparently 5:1 was too many boffins for even a double-oh. Or maybe he just needed someone to keep an eye on the rest of them if Q fainted again.

R, in an easy combination of his de-facto chief of staff and the motherly Henrietta, kept up a steady monologue around her tea. It covered what she'd pushed out to the next fiscal year to prioritise the new pharmaceutical testing, eat your sandwich Q - there's a love, reminding the courier that these samples went down to the Q labs, not medical, and so on. By the time the food was cleared away she'd lulled them all into easy compliance. 

Then she maneuvered them all into the living room as smoothly as she set up interdepartmental design charrettes; the woman was a treasure.

That was how Q found himself bare to the waist, prone on the couch as Dr. Alice placed a needle between his lumbar vertebrae and while Trevelyan flirted with her and she flirted back. Henrietta had procured a towel - one of Bond's given the softness of what must have been Egyptian cotton - to protect the couch from the iodine covering him. She sat next to his head, with space to spare, and rubbed circles between his shoulder blades. When Dr. Alice filled her vials he clutched Henrietta's free hand tighter than he wanted to admit and swore he wasn't going to pass out.

Which, to his mortification, he did. At least this time, when he came to there were no new mortifying photos, only his favourite afghan tucked snugly around him.

His staff were also gone. He groped around for his glasses on the coffee table, and put them on to discover a note in R's engineers script and his blue marking pen on top of the pile of papers he assumed was the Q-branch budget.

'Q,' it read, 'pharma is scanning your partial report and will return for completion. Sampling frequency reduced to every three hours, timer set. Since you were identified last night, Switch had your painting kit pulled from the Q-hive, she says to remind you the next gallery show will be in June. I need that budget inked ASAP. Stay safe. -R'

Bond and Trevelyan, however, remained sitting across from him. They'd been drinking for some time now, if Q were to take the depleted bottle of scotch and full tumblers on the table between their chairs as any indication. Despite that, both pairs of eyes were fixed firmly on him.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Just before five," replied Bond, "You’ve been out a bit more than an hour."

"And my staff just left me?!"

"They gave us toys first," said Trevelyan. He waved a tablet at Q, displaying the window with the bio-trackers from his watch. 

Q groaned. It made sense. Dr. Alice would want to get a team on his samples yesterday, Switch to escape the agents, and Henrietta had family in town. 

"We’re not that bad," Trevelyan tried to cajole Q, "and you love us, right?"

"I no longer have to answer that," he said.

"Ouch!" Trevelyan clasped a hand against his chest, all theatrics. "James, he’s breaking my heart!"

Q sighed. Agents. He gathered up his jumper and headed for the bath - perhaps after dressing and finding his usual glasses he’d be prepared to deal with them. It bothered him that they’d been sitting across from him when he woke, and it wasn’t just the vulnerability of the situation. There was something else, but he needed distance and a computer to figure it out.

* * *

The budget proved to be enough of a distraction that Q hardly spoke to the agents for the rest of the day. He’d set up at the dining table, turning a space that had once seated eight into mountains of papers. 

Bond brought him tea. Sometime later a plate appeared at his elbow with steak and asparagus. 

It only got awkward when Trevelyan announced it was time he was off and let himself out the back. Q checked his watch; he'd been lost in the paperwork, but by any standard one in the morning was well past time for bed. He rose, cracking his back, and followed Bond’s silent footsteps to the bathroom. 

It was only when he tried, again, to sleep on the daybed that Bond broke the silence.

"In here."

Q managed not to sigh, but he was sure his lack of enthusiasm came through with every step he took towards the bed. At least this time he was wearing pyjamas.

"I meant it when I said I can't sleep with people awake in my house," Bond said.

"And I meant it when I said I'm a terrible person to sleep with," Q replied. "I'll keep you up all night."

"Get comfortable," Bond said, pulling back the top sheet. While the agent settled himself, Q gingerly climbed into the bed and settled himself on his side. He faced away from Bond and pulled his knees to his chest, making himself smaller.

"What?!" Q squawked, as a muscular arm reached across him and pulled him snug against Bond.

"This way, even if I'm asleep, I'll know you're no threat," Bond said. His breath was hot and moist on the nape of Q's neck. Lying here, clothed, was strangely more intimate than last night, and Q tried to squirm free.

It didn't work.

"Let me go," he hissed, "I know Agent Trevelyan has a guest room, and I'm sure M will agree that one double-oh is as good as another."

Bond just chuckled. "It's Saturday night. The clubs he's at won't close for hours, so you're stuck with me."

Q sagged. Bond was right, Trevaylen did go out whenever he got a chance. No doubt the reason he'd looked like he'd just woken up when Bond dragged him over this afternoon was because he had. He closed his eyes and evened his breathing; he could do this. Besides, Q knew, Bond would be well within his rights to ask for more than spooning if he so desired.

* * *

Q woke alone. He and Bond passed Sunday in near silence, interrupted by only meals and the courier's visits to collect the blood samples and inked budgets. Cementing his cover, Q produced three watercolours of the cityscape outside Bond's sitting area. The team would forward them to his body double - actually a second cousin on his mother's side - living the life of a disgraced prodigy turned reclusive painter on the Scottish coast.

That night Bond, staring past him at the canvases with a glass of scotch in hand, instructed him to go to bed first. In the morning, Q woke alone. He was uncertain if the agent had ever joined him: Bond looked terrible in that put-together way that field agents did and that James Bond did better. Q would like to have ascribed it to a lack of sleep, but drinking before nine on a Monday was also a heavy contender.

By the time they finished breakfast, and Q did what washing up there was, he was climbing the walls. He'd finished everything there was to do here and he itched to get back to work. Impatient, Q pleaded with Bond until the agent called in to Q-branch and got the sampling _and testing_ frequency increased to every thirty minutes. 

It was a relief when Dr. Alice called to tell him his blood work was clear.

Not ten minutes later Q was in a cab heading back to his flat. A quick call to his mum - there were probably a half dozen messages on the machine since he'd missed their usual Sunday morning chat without even a text - and he could head back to work. At least the only thing that all sources agreed on was that agent 007 was a love-em and leave-em sort; now that this was over he was looking forward to being undisturbed down in the labs.

* * *

**Epilogue: Q-branch Visitor's Conference Room, 5 months later.**

Oh how sadly wrong he had been when he thought sleeping with James Bond would have the benefit of getting him out of Q-branch. After two months of using the visitor's conference room and his spare monitor as a makeshift office to prevent the agent from venturing deeper into Q-branch, Q gave up and designated it his secondary office, requisitioning a full computer setup and technical bench. 

That had been three months ago. Bond took the addition of an old leather couch and two hot desks with fully secured network jacks - meant for cysec group work needing Q's input - as an invitation. He'd even thanked Q before actually moving his paper files down from the double-oh section. 

At least it kept him away from Q's staff. Mostly. From the weekly check-ins Q held, and Bond wouldn't leave for, he'd charmed his way into a first name basis with all of the team leads. 

He relentlessly used 'Sinful' instead of 'Q,' even when they had visitors. Only cysec had understood the pun; everyone else thought it was a cute pet name. But cysec hadn't let it go and he'd still had to resort to a Fibonacci escalating punishment to discourage its use: 1 hour of IT support for the first 2 offenses, then 2, 3, 5. It currently stood at 233 hours and _all of_ his staff, across all divisions, would no longer even acknowledge the agent until he used 'Q.'

Which is why, when Agent Bond - with a broken cheekbone and nose swollen shut - let himself let himself into what he considered 'their' office and rumbled out "Hey Sinful," to the quartermasters back he was met not with the usual clipped 'Agent Bond' but with a tatty headset thrust backwards over a shoulder and '233 hours. See R.' Q had not even glanced away from his monitor.

Q only found out what happened when R came by a few hours later.

"Oh," she laughed, "you should have seen James. You couldn't see his face under the bruises, but there he was, holding up that headset and asking what he was supposed to do with it. Sounded like hell. Since all this has freed IT up, they're planning on testing your AI's human interaction using low-level support issues. I figured that because he can't identify the differences between a phone line and a CAT-5 cable at ten paces he'd be of use as an avatar, so I sent him on. I don't think he realized you'd been punishing people."

"Oh dear," Q rested his head in his hands, "did he seem upset?"

"I couldn't say. He had that 'I can't believe we're part of the same organisation' look, but it's either that or the sneer when he's not in your office. He's a field agent, after all"

"A field agent," Q agreed, "a double-oh. One with an indefinite hold on my person, and incapable of using bloody words to say what he wants from me. Just sits there and stares."

R looked uncomfortable. He saw her fidgeting as he massaged his temples in a futile attempt to relieve the tension.

"We think, sir," she said, "he's trying to court you."

"You can't be serious."

"If he wanted a shag, he could order it up. He only put the hold on you after your, umm, encounter with 005. And if he wanted to have someone throw themselves at him, all he has to do is walk through accounting. He's got friends he goes out for a pint with, and he lives next door to Trevelyan."

Q just groaned.

"Besides, he actually listened when I gave him directions to the front desk for IT. Asked if he should report at James Bond or William Sterling; I told him to go with Sterling since I don't want to spook the dears. I think he's trying to impress you."

"With IT hours?"

"He's a double-oh; with whatever it takes." Q could have sworn she was about to pat him on the head, like one of her kids, when she left his office.

Q indulged himself by retreating back into his real office, engaging the security protocols, and curling up on his sofa with a tablet and stylus. Two hours later his tea was long gone and he had conceded that Henrietta was right. Q wasn't being stalked, he was being courted.

And, given the thoroughness and quality of 'Sterling's' credentials, it appeared Bond was being aided and abetted by Q branch.

Well fuck. Not such a clever boy, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> 007 kink meme prompt found [here](http://007kinkmeme.livejournal.com/1142.html?thread=189558#t189558)
> 
> This was supposed to be a lighthearted, short, romp. 29,000 words later it's done.
> 
> Not beta'd, not Brit-picked, but I switched all the dictionaries over to English (UK) so hopefully it's not terrible. Constructive criticism (spelling, typos, phrasing, all the way up to flow, content, and pacing) welcome.
> 
> I have ideas (tm) for various one-shots (James drags Alec to the gallery show since his cover is as an international art dealer, hilarity ensues) and a sequel - in which James attempts to court Q in full Q-branch style. However, since it took me more than 4 months to write this, and Spectre is coming out in another 4 months - I can't say what'll happen.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who took the time to read, comment, and kudo over the last three days while this was still showing up as a WIP from an unknown author. I appreciated your kind thoughts, and hope you enjoy the completed work.


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